Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Read online

  Evans spoke up. “And why are Henry Walsh’s prints on the bottle if Scully is the killer?”

  The boss shook her head. “Don’t make this complicated. The two homeless men got into a fight—maybe over the damn bottle of beer—and Thompson tried to break it up. Scully stabbed him, took his gun, then later shot himself.”

  It sounded reasonable. Yet, it bothered him. “But the suicide is still odd. He was lying down in his sleeping bag.”

  The DA turned to face Jackson. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure yet. What if someone killed Scully while he slept and tried to make it look like suicide?”

  “Oh come on.” Lammers’ frustration was evident. “Both men involved in Thompson’s death are transients, and they’re both dead.” She locked eyes with the DA. “There’s no one to prosecute.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.” Slonecker stood. “If anything changes, let me know.” The DA walked out.

  Jackson disagreed with Lammers’ assessment of the two men as transients. Scully seemed like a drifter, but Henry Walsh had lived in Eugene his whole life. But Jackson kept it to himself.

  He looked at Quince, who hadn’t spoken yet. “Do you have anything to add to the board?”

  “A business owner saw a light-gray sedan parked on Fourth Street the night of Thompson’s murder. She said it seemed out of place.” Quince shrugged. “But that was a block over from the crime scene, so it’s probably not connected.”

  “See if you can find security camera footage of that area.”

  Evans wrote the car on the board. When she turned back, Jackson asked, “Did you find anything interesting in Thompson’s house?”

  “Nothing related to his death.” Her eyes held a glint of mirth.

  Jackson turned to Lammers. “What about Thompson’s case log? Did you look at it?”

  She nodded. “Routine traffic stops and a burglary at a warehouse. All of it irrelevant. What about you?” Lammers added, “Is there anything from Thompson’s autopsy we need to know about?”

  Rattled by her intractability, Jackson had to look at his notes. “The weapon is the broken bottle we found near the body. The killer is right-handed and about the same height as Thompson.”

  “How tall is Scully?”

  “I’m guessing five-ten. But I don’t have a measurement yet or even a time of death. The ME had three deaths to process this weekend.”

  “Four,” Schak said, coming through the door. “A young girl committed suicide.” He took the seat the DA had just vacated. Schak met Lammers’ stare. “I just want an update on Danny’s death, then I’m out of here.”

  “He was stabbed by a transient named Pete Scully, who later killed himself.” Lammers glanced at Jackson, as if challenging him to disagree.

  “It seems likely Scully is the killer,” Jackson conceded. “He had Thompson’s gun and cell phone. He’s the right size, he was in the area, and he had blood on his jacket.”

  “Who is Scully?” Schak’s expression was a mix of anger and confusion.

  “A drifter,” Jackson said. “He’s a veteran, but other than that, we don’t know anything about him. But I’ll find out what I can.”

  “Where did the drifter die?”

  “Less than a mile from the original crime scene. A search dog found him in a hidden campsite.”

  Schak fought to control his emotions. “At least we got him.”

  “Yeah.” Jackson wanted to share his concerns about how Scully died but not in front of Lammers. Or maybe not at all. Schak needed closure.

  Lammers took charge of the meeting. “Update us on your case, Schak.”

  Jackson started to protest, but Schak looked so relieved, he kept quiet.

  “We have a sexual predator targeting intoxicated girls, and I could use some help.” Schak sat up straighter and looked at his notes. “Two victims, so far. Plus their parents, when you count the blackmail.”

  “Let’s bring in a second whiteboard.” Lammers stood. “I’ll get a mobile one from the tech unit.”

  As soon as the boss left, Jackson said, “We’re still going to find out what we can about Pete Scully. I want to understand his motive.”

  “Some people don’t need a motive for killing a police officer,” Evans reminded them. “Just the possibility of arrest is enough.”

  “But would a person like that kill himself?” Jackson posed.

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the heat system. Finally, Schak said, “I’m always surprised by the people who kill themselves. The department lost an officer to suicide recently, and we were all shocked. My wife’s brother killed himself two years ago and didn’t even leave a note. He had a family of teenagers at home.”

  Jackson pushed his concerns aside for the moment. He would continue to investigate on his own time.

  Lammers pushed a mobile dry-erase board into the room and handed the marker to Schak.

  “This will be interesting,” Evans said. “Schak writes like a second-grader.”

  He cracked a small smile, then flipped her off. “Don’t worry, I don’t have much yet.” He printed names, dates, and dollar amounts on the board as he summarized his case. “The first victim, Mara Andrade, seventeen, was assaulted last spring. The perp sent a partial video to her parents’ cell phone and demanded ten grand or he would post the whole thing online. They paid him and never heard from him again.” Schak paused, looking back at the group, then continued. “Last week, he assaulted Ashley Devonshire, age sixteen, with a similar MO. He wanted fifteen grand this time, and the parents didn’t have it. They asked for more time. He posted the video, and Ashley took a bunch of sleeping pills Friday night. Her parents found her dead the next morning.”

  Schak turned to face the group, a troubled look on his face. “Both assaults occurred after the girls attended a party and got drunk. Both parties were broken up by a police officer.”

  Not again, Jackson thought. The stress made his guts roil in protest.

  Quince broke the silence. “That doesn’t mean it’s one of us. Someone could be impersonating an officer.”

  Lammers asked, “Do you have a description?”

  “Not yet. That’s where I need help. I have to track down the people who attended those parties and find out who the victims were seen with and what the cop looked like.”

  “Give everyone a list of names,” Lammers said. “I can be available if you need me, but I’m dealing with the fallout of yesterday’s riot. We have five officers either injured or suspended and overtime issues to deal with because of the search for Thompson’s killer.” She closed her notepad. “The protestors are gathering again, and the chief has called a management meeting to decide how to handle it.”

  Jackson was relieved she planned to go back to her administrative role.

  “The four of us can handle this,” Schak said.

  Lammers turned to his partner. “You may have to get IA involved eventually, but not yet.” She glanced around at everyone. “No one outside this room is to know that we might be looking for a cop.”

  She stood, started toward the door, and locked eyes with Jackson. “It’s time to move on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Relieved to finally have help, Schak gave everyone a short list of witness names. He was glad he hadn’t called Ben Stricklyn the day before. Lammers didn’t want IA involved yet, and he’d rather work with his regular crew.

  “Is the perp communicating strictly by phone?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, but no luck in tracking the number.” Schak checked his list of things to do. Still overwhelming. “I’m heading to the tech department next. Maybe they can track the computer that uploaded the video of Ashley.”

  “Did you watch it?” Evans wanted to know.

  Schak’s cheeks flushed. “I had to. I needed
to see if the perp showed anything that would help identify him.” Tracy’s disgust flashed in his mind. No wonder Quince had wanted out of the Vice Unit.

  “Did you learn anything?” Evans wasn’t judging him. He could tell by her tone. She just wanted to know who they were looking for.

  “No. He only films the—” Schak searched for an inoffensive phrase. “The manual part of the assault. So he’s careful not to reveal himself. And I don’t think he ejaculates inside them.”

  “They don’t remember anything?” Jackson squinted at him.

  “I think he drugs them. And these assaults may be as much about the money as the sex,” Schak said.

  “That would be unusual,” Evans countered. “Rape is more about power and violence than anything else.”

  Schak didn’t know if he believed that. “I called an FBI profiler, and he says the perp is probably between thirty and fifty.” Schak turned and scribbled the profile on the board. “Tech savvy too. Most likely someone who works in science, technology, or engineering.”

  Evans let out a snort. “I could have told you that.”

  Schak ignored her. “Both girls attended Riverside, so he could have some connection to the school. But the parties were in the campus area, hosted by young men in their twenties.”

  “Are the victims friends?” Jackson asked.

  “They knew each other through a male classmate, Daren Sorenson, who graduated last year and slipped out of his mother’s house before I could question him.” Schak wrote his name on the board. “He also has some groping incidents in his past, so he’s my prime suspect.”

  “So the connection might not be the school,” Jackson commented. “But the social circle.”

  “Right. He’s targeting families with money.”

  Evans jumped in. “Then watching to see when those girls go out drinking? Maybe by monitoring their social media pages?”

  “Dragoo is breaking into her Facebook account for me.” Schak updated the board with Riverside and Facebook. “The profiler also thinks there’s likely more victims. I called Sophie Speranza at the paper and asked her to run a piece calling for victims to come forward. If we get flooded, I’ll need your help talking to them too.”

  A weary tension filled the room.

  “I know,” he said. “You all worked straight through the weekend, and so did I.”

  “I got called out with the SWAT unit yesterday to handle the riot,” Evans added. “And it could happen again. So I might not be much help.”

  Jackson spoke up. “The perp is smart to ask for small amounts of money and to give parents only a few hours to comply. That’s why no one has contacted us until now . . . when a girl died.”

  Could he find the guy? Fear of failure gripped Schak. What if the perp gave up his blackmail business to avoid being caught or moved to another town to continue? “Any ideas how to catch him?” He wasn’t too proud to ask.

  “What about a sting?” Evans suggested. “We set up a party inside his territory, then send in an undercover cop to play a drunk young woman.” She grinned. “I would do it, but I’m not sure I can pass for under twenty-five.”

  Schak liked the idea and said, “I’ll talk to some of the Vice detectives and see what we can come up with.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Jackson said. “So it can’t be our only plan of action.” Jackson made a face. “Lammers might not approve the resources.”

  Schak decided not to tell the boss. “Let’s all meet again tomorrow morning.” He stood, ready to dig into the investigation again. “Call me if you get anything useful.”

  Back at his desk, he downed two more aspirin with his lukewarm coffee. Not exactly a hangover, but feeling deprived, he’d drank too much too quickly the night before. He had to find a compromise, a way to keep his drinking in check so that Tracy would get off his back about it. He wanted to feel better physically every morning too.

  Time to get on Facebook and see if he could find a connection between the victims or between the parties. A rush of anxiety made him push away from his desk. He hated social media. Sometimes it made his job easier, but combing through all that personal information felt like sniffing everyone’s underwear. Why did people share so much detail? So much pain and humiliation? To find anything useful, he had to sift through so much garbage—cat pictures, religious mumbo jumbo, feminist poetry—it overwhelmed him.

  He walked across the building to the tech unit, and Dragoo looked up from his desk. His receding hairline and green Ducks jacket made him look like a used-car salesman. But the tech guy was sharp and aggressive in a good way.

  “Hey, Schak. I just finished tracking the video. The perp uploaded it at the Eugene library.”

  “Damn. So he’s too smart to use his own computer.”

  “Yeah, but if he was really tech savvy, he could have used a series of proxies and made it impossible to track. So he’s not a pro, and that’s good news.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “Maybe set a trap. Have the parents contact him and offer to pay to take down the video. I could watch the file and target the location it’s pulled from.”

  Another good idea, but unworkable. “The phone number he was using is out of service. He’s moved on.”

  “He was smart to communicate by text only.”

  Schak was tired of hearing how smart the predator was. “Have you hacked into Ashley Devonshire’s Facebook page? I need to see her connections.”

  “You’re all set.” Dragoo handed him the silver laptop. “I changed her log-in and password to Schak.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stopped in the break room for coffee, then braced himself and logged into Ashley’s account. Her last post had been Friday evening at 7:47: This world is not suited to people like me. Or maybe I’m just not tough enough. But I feel like I’m screaming in my head all the time and it’s exhausting. Thanks for listening.

  Two friends had responded with concern, asking if she was okay. Neither was on his list of witnesses, but he made a note of their names. He scrolled back to Ashley’s posts for Wednesday, the night of the assault. She’d been chatting with Anna Sorenson about the party, but neither mentioned meeting anyone specific. He read all her page posts between the party and her final note. Half were links to funny videos and photos of cute pets. The rest were random observations and teenage girl chatter about movies and clothes. And a few jokes about how cold global warming was. A waste of his time. Twenty minutes of teeth-grinding hell for nothing. But he’d had to check. His gut told him the predator was someone who had access to these girls.

  Schak scrolled through Ashley’s friends, looking for someone older, a male face that seemed inconsistent with everyone else. He didn’t find anyone like that except a teacher who seemed to be friends with all his students. But the predator could be hiding behind another persona, pretending to be a young female friend. Schak checked his notes. Taylor Crenshaw and Daren Sorenson. The two people who’d been at both parties. He’d stopped at the Sorenson home on Sunday, but the mother had claimed Daren hadn’t been home and that it was typical for him. She’d given him the name of a friend he might be staying with, but he’d had no luck tracking the boy down.

  Taylor Crenshaw was likely in school today. Unless she was home, grieving for Ashley. Schak made a note to check with the Devonshires about when the memorial service would be held. The predator might show up to target his next victim. Schak called Riverside High School, identified himself, and asked if Taylor Crenshaw was in attendance. She was, indeed, so he pulled on his overcoat and headed out.

  An elite school on the bank of the Willamette, Riverside had more masonry and glass than most high schools, which tended to look like prisons. Not this one. Lush landscaping, fresh paint, and red-brick at the base. Schak hurried across the parking lot, head down against the cold wind. Inside the school, he smelled pizza and realized it was
lunchtime. His stomach growled in response. Pizza and beer. Damn, that sounded good. He headed for the main office, feeling self-conscious as the young people gave him curious glances.

  He recognized the older receptionist’s voice as the woman he’d spoken to earlier and moved to her side of the counter. Ahead of him stood a young girl in a short skirt who had to be freezing. The teenager finally moved along, and he spoke to the receptionist. After a little back-and-forth about where the interview with Taylor would take place, the woman sent an office helper to her classroom to bring the witness to him.

  “And would you check with the principal? Mrs. Miller said she’d have a list for me.”

  “She brought it to me earlier, and I’ve got it for you here.” The receptionist handed him a manila envelope.

  Five minutes later, he was seated in a small yellow conference room with a pretty young woman who was taller than he was. Schak held back a basketball joke and introduced himself.

  “Is this about Ashley?” she asked, her lips trembling.

  “Yes. I need to know about the party you both attended Wednesday night.”

  “Are you going to tell my parents?” Worried eyes blinked at him.

  “About your underage drinking? No.”

  A slump of relief. “We’re all upset about Ash. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  He had to keep her focused. “Who did Ashley talk to at the party?”

  “Everyone. That’s the point of a party.”

  He inhaled and nodded. “Who did she leave with?”

  Taylor’s blonde eyebrows scrunched in concentration. “I’m not sure. A lot of people split when the cop came and told the minors to go home. I didn’t see Ash after that.”

  “Did you see the cop?”

  “Yeah. I was in the kitchen, ready to bolt out the back door.” She blushed, then laughed. “But I look older than my age, so he didn’t run me out.”