Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Read online

  “We’ll rent a place for now and start looking to buy something together down the road.” Had he gone too far? Was that what he really wanted?

  “What about Katie? She just moved back in with you. I’m afraid to disrupt her again.”

  Jackson had worried so much about his fifteen-year-old daughter over the previous year that he’d developed some emotional scar tissue. “Now that she’s pregnant, she’s in a different mental space. She’ll come along.” He grabbed Kera’s hands. “It’s our time to be together.”

  “I love the sound of that.” Kera kissed him deeply, but their moment was interrupted by a tug on Jackson’s pant leg.

  He reluctantly pulled back and reached down to touch Benjie’s head. “Good morning.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “You know where the bathroom is.” Jackson walked him there anyway. Like Jackson, Benjie had lost his mother, a homicide victim with no family. The little boy had clung to him at the crime scene, and Jackson had taken him home and eventually filed for custody. The hearing was set for next week, and he was eager to get beyond it.

  As they came back up the hall, he heard his phone ring. Tension filled his body. On an early Saturday morning, it could only be one person.

  He stepped into the kitchen, and Kera handed him the cell. “It’s Sergeant Lammers. You’d better take it.” She kept her face impassive, but he knew she was disappointed.

  Reluctantly, he put the phone to his ear and walked away. “What have we got?”

  “Officer Dan Thompson was killed near a homeless camp last night.” Her gruff voice broke at the end. “You have to take this one, Jackson,” she pleaded. “We need the killer in custody ASAP. The whole department will be chaotic until we’ve made an arrest.”

  Grief, fear, and stress seized him, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Thompson was one of the good guys. A cop with a big heart and a moral code he never compromised. He was also Detective Rob Schakowski’s cousin. “Does Schak know?”

  “Not yet. Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

  Jackson didn’t have the heart. Schak might break down and cry, and he wouldn’t want Jackson to witness it. “Will you tell him, please? And don’t let him come out to the scene.”

  “Of course not.” Lammers’ gruffness was back. “Thompson was found this morning by a college student on her way to do some research at the new camp. He was in the grass near West Fifth Avenue, with his truck parked nearby. It’s a short chunk of street off West First, then Wallis.”

  Jackson visualized the industrial area, surrounded by wetlands. “How did he die?”

  “Multiple stab wounds.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The early-morning drive across town was quiet, with crisp, cold air and dark, leafless trees lining the streets. Eugene, Oregon, was prettier in the summer, but Jackson loved it year-round and had never lived anywhere else. He probably never would. Tucked in between the mountains and the ocean, it never suffered the extreme weather going on everywhere else. On a cultural level, it was just big enough to be interesting. As a law enforcement jurisdiction, they were facing the highest annual murder rate they’d ever had. Violent, inexplicable homicides had sucked up their time and left the unit members shaking their heads, but they had all been resolved.

  He hoped that would be the case with this one as well. What had Dan Thompson been doing near the camp? It had to be charity. For the previous seven winters, Thompson had collected blankets and warm clothing at the first sign of freezing temperatures to give to needy individuals. The early onset of cold weather had set the campaign in motion a few weeks ago, so Thompson had likely been handing out goods. Had a drunk, psychotic hobo killed him? It was easy to jump to that conclusion, even though Thompson would be the first to counter that kind of thinking. Dan had advocated for the homeless among his peers, but his message had gone largely unheard. For most officers, street people were a pain in the ass. A problem that continued to grow as the city council kept making Eugene more attractive to those in need.

  He turned on Wallis and saw three squad cars at the end of the block. Beyond them, in the clearing, was the homeless camp. He drove toward them, passing small businesses operating out of metal buildings. As he turned onto Fifth Avenue, he spotted another patrol car parked on the street behind a red pickup. He climbed out of his city-issued sedan, and the quiet morning erupted in shouts. Jackson spun toward the ruckus. Uniformed officers tore through the camp, ripping down tents and kicking cardboard boxes. The shouting grew louder.

  “Get up!”

  “Put your hands in the air!”

  “Move, scumbag!”

  They were searching everyone, and Jackson knew it had to be done. If a suspect in the camp still had the murder weapon, they needed to find it right away. But the anger and aggression could backfire, and more people could be hurt. He grabbed his phone and called Lammers. “You need to get down here. Maybe Sergeant Bruckner too. We’ve got angry officers tearing the camp apart. But I need to focus on the crime scene and can’t babysit them.”

  In the distance, a man cried out in pain. Jackson hung up and ran toward the camp, touching the Sig Sauer under his jacket out of habit. The patrol officers carried batons and Tasers to deal with unruly citizens, but he didn’t. Yet he wasn’t afraid for himself. He feared for the vagrants—and for the department, if this scene got out of control and lawsuits followed. They didn’t need another scandal.

  He charged past an officer talking to two handcuffed men seated near a makeshift lean-to and into the center of the camp. Another officer, a big man he didn’t know, shouted at a ragged camper who was on his knees. “Take off your coat now!” The officer raised his baton.

  The homeless man cringed but clung tightly to his jacket. The air was freezing, and the coat was probably his only possession.

  “It can wait until the command unit gets here,” Jackson said, stepping up. The big mobile bus would arrive soon and serve as an interview room. “What’s your name?” He locked eyes with the officer.

  “Greg Bremmer.” The uniformed man bristled with anger. “One of our own is dead, and I will search everyone in this camp.”

  “Just do it respectfully. This man could be a witness, and no one is leaving the area until I’ve talked to them.”

  “Respectfully?” Bremmer rolled his eyes in disgust. “Give me a fuckin’ break.”

  “You took an oath. Respect that, at least.”

  More shouting and cries of pain came from inside a nearby tent. Jackson rushed to the opening. Inside, an officer was kneeling on a man’s back.

  “No one gets hurt here!”

  The officer popped to his feet and spun to face him. Keith Markham. They’d worked patrol together long ago. “Jackson. You’re handling this case?”

  “I am. And I want cooperative witnesses.”

  “I’m just trying to help you out. This scumbag had a weapon.” With a bare hand, Markham held out a small, closed pocketknife.

  “Slip it in my jacket. My gloves and evidence bags are still in my car.”

  The officer complied. Below him, the homeless man rolled over to face them. He looked seventy, with brown weathered skin and a gray scraggly beard, but he could be closer to fifty.

  Jackson kneeled down. “What’s your name?”

  “Ricky Jones.” He had watery eyes and a voice ragged from smoking unfiltereds and drinking rotgut. “Why did you take my knife?”

  “Who did you stab with it?”

  The old man looked startled. “No one. I’m not a fighter.”

  “Did you see anyone get stabbed last night?”

  He shook his head, and spit dribbled off his lip.

  Jackson would ask a lot more questions later, but he had to see the slain officer first. He turned to Officer Markham. “Keep him here until we can start questioning. But no rough stuff.”


  Jackson jogged back toward the side street, worried the crime scene had been contaminated. Another patrol unit screamed down the road, siren wailing. The entire morning shift of officers was now on the scene, and more were probably being called in. He grabbed his shoulder bag from his car and headed toward Thompson’s red truck. A female officer stood on the road nearby.

  As Jackson reached the vehicle, he heard another engine behind him and turned. Schak parked near the patrol unit blocking the street and jumped out. “Where’s Danny?” Voice tight, his partner charged toward him, his barrel-shaped body moving faster than it seemed capable.

  “Near here somewhere.” Jackson hoped Schak would stay out of the crime scene once he had processed and accepted his cousin’s death. Jackson pulled gloves from his shoulder bag and slipped them on. “I’m sorry about Dan. I know you were close.”

  “He’s like a brother. We grew up together. He even stayed with us for a while.” Schak scanned the wetlands, his pupils dark pinpoints, a man holding in a cauldron of emotions.

  “He was a good man,” Jackson said, touching his partner’s shoulder. “We’ll get the perp who did this.”

  Schak was silent.

  The female officer stepped toward them and pointed. “He’s by that clump of shrubs near the tree.” Officer Gardner. New to the force, she’d taken Jackson’s crime scene class recently.

  “Where’s the student who called it in?” Jackson strode toward the officer.

  “I checked her ID and let her go.” Gardner shifted her feet. “The witness was upset and crying, and it was obvious the victim had been dead for a while.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “She was biking to the camp to do research for a school paper. She saw a rabbit and watched it run into the brush, then spotted the body. She called 911, and I was the first to arrive.” Gardner handed him a page from her notebook. “Sabra Yokum. Here’s her phone number and address. I hope I did the right thing.”

  “You did fine.” Behind her, Jackson spotted a homeless person at the end of the short street. “Go question that guy, then send him back the way he came and block that path.” He hated public crime scenes. They were difficult to manage.

  Schak was already moving across the rain-soaked grass toward the body, which was faceup near a wild rose bush. Jackson followed, nearly bumping into his partner as he stopped short a few feet back. Jackson moved past him, pulling out his camera. He had learned to look at bodies through the lens first, creating a sense of surreality and distance. When the victim was a woman or a child—or in this case, a fellow officer—it helped him push past an emotional reaction.

  Behind him, Schak’s primal gasp of anguish was like a punch in the gut. This wasn’t just another victim. Dan Thompson was a brother to them all. Jackson turned to his partner. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I had to see him.”

  “I get that. Now you need to go.”

  “What else am I going to do?”

  “You can notify his family. Ask a few questions.” Normally, Jackson would do it, but Schak would be contacting them anyway.

  “I already called Danny’s ex-wife,” Schak said. “I feel so bad for his kids.”

  “Is she here in town?”

  “Harrisburg. The boys are usually with him on weekends though.”

  “What about Thompson’s parents and siblings?”

  “His mother, my aunt, lives not far from me. She and Kurt will be devastated.”

  “Go be with them.”

  “You can’t kick me off this case.”

  Jackson was torn. Schak was a tenacious and dedicated investigator and could be useful. But not here. Not right now. “It’s not my call, and Lammers didn’t want you at the scene. She’s on her way here.”

  After a pause, Schak turned and walked away. Jackson snapped photos, forcing himself to focus on the process. Take pictures of the scene, the position of the body, and the wallet lying next to it. Then close-ups of the wounds. Check the hands for defensive nicks and bruises. Search the area for trace evidence and debris the killer might have dropped.

  The stab wounds gave him pause. A jagged gash low across his throat and another just above the belt on his left side. Wide, angry openings that had formed congealed pools of blood. These weren’t knife wounds. He’d seen something similar only once before, when a man had been attacked with a broken bottle in a bar fight. In the earlier case, the assailant had aimed for the chest, and his victim had survived. Had this killer gone for the throat on purpose? But why? Thompson had been a friend to the homeless community.

  “Oh god.” Detective Lara Evans walked up and kneeled beside him. “This is brutal. Like someone crazed on meth.” Her heart-shaped face tightened with disgust.

  “It was done with something big, jagged, and sharp. Like a broken bottle.”

  “Probably someone from the camp. Or a transient passing through.” Evans stood and looked around. “What was Thompson doing in this area? He’s in uniform, but not in a patrol unit. He must have been off duty.”

  “I think he was passing out blankets. He’d been collecting them again.”

  “Right. I saw his poster at the department. But why twenty feet from his vehicle?”

  It bothered Jackson too. Still on his knees, he picked up the wallet, noting that it had no cash or bank cards. “The perp robbed him.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Evans was searching the immediate area on the other side of the body. “What about his weapon?”

  “I haven’t seen it. Maybe it’s in the truck or his locker at work.” Jackson dug through the victim’s pockets, finding only car keys in his jacket. No cell phone. The killer had probably taken it too. And Thompson’s jacket was open. Why hadn’t it been zipped? The temperature was in the mid-thirties. Last night had been even colder.

  Jackson stood, feeling a familiar pinch in his gut. Was it time to start taking the prednisone again? “We need to find the weapon.” He started to scan the tall grass, but the position of the body caught his attention. Thompson’s feet pointed toward the road, so he’d likely been facing that direction. It seemed odd. He would have expected to find him facing the brush, as if looking for someone or something. Had Thompson tried to stop an altercation between two other men? The medical examiner and crime scene techs would arrive any moment and begin to collect trace evidence. Eventually, they’d have answers.

  “We need to round up every transient in the area and check for stains,” Evans said. “Whoever did this probably has Thompson’s blood on their clothes.”

  The task seemed monumental, but if a street person had killed him, at least they hadn’t gone home and washed their clothes. “We’ll get a volunteer team out here to comb the wider area for discarded clothing.”

  They both squatted and began to search the immediate area, looking for anything sharp. The flat ground was covered mostly with tall grass, with a few shrubs. In the distance, the land sloped uphill into a thicket of trees. On the other side of the thicket were more industry and retail shops. Jackson searched the clump near the body, finding only a faded and weathered food wrapper.

  He heard an engine and looked up to see the medical examiner’s white van drive over the grass to get around the police cars blocking the end of the street. A moment later, Jackson found a broken bottle of Colt 45 about ten feet from the body on the west side. What looked like dried blood covered a sharp protrusion.

  “I think I’ve got it,” he called to Evans. Jackson looked over to where Officer Gardner was talking to the transient. Had the killer gone down the dirt path through the open wetlands? He assumed it came out on West Seventh, another short chunk of road that connected two other main streets.

  Jackson pulled out two large evidence bags and slid one inside the other to form a thick seal. Grabbing the sharp end, he slipped the potential weapon inside, hoping to preserve any finger
prints that might be on the bottle’s neck. When the mobile command arrived, they would print everyone at the camp. He felt a glimmer of hope that this investigation might not be as challenging as he’d first thought.

  The medical examiner and two crime scene techs climbed from the van, burdened by equipment. Time to step away from the body and interview potential witnesses and suspects. Where was the command unit?

  Jackson greeted the death crew, who he’d worked with for years. Rich Gunderson, the ME, looked the part in all black. “I can’t believe we lost another one,” he said. “Fucking mental illness.” Gunderson set down his gear and pulled on protective booties.

  Thompson was the fourth Eugene cop to die in three years. A patrol officer had been shot after pulling over a woman with schizophrenia, and more recently, a community service officer had killed himself. Two years earlier, an officer had died from an accidental gun discharge at a shooting range. But the murders hit the department the hardest.

  Gunderson reached for the evidence bag and shook his head. “Nasty weapon.”

  An engine rumbled, and Jackson turned to the main street. A white vehicle that looked like a cross between a bus and a mobile home parked in the intersection of the two dead-end streets. It looked like Detective Michael Quince was driving. “I’ll be in the command unit conducting interviews,” Jackson said. “Please send a tech over with the time of death as soon as you know.”

  “Give me a minute, and I’ll get his body temp.” Gunderson squatted next to the corpse.

  Jackson turned to Evans. “We need to print everyone in the camp. Bring them to the command unit two at a time, but have Quince do the prints. You start the questioning. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  “I’m on it.” Evans jogged off, moving at her usual high-energy pace. The only woman in their fourteen-person unit, she was also the youngest. But Jackson had mentored her from her first day in Violent Crimes, and she’d never let him down. She was also the only female in the SWAT unit and the smallest person to have passed the rigorous physical test. Some of the SWAT guys were rooting for her to fail, but Jackson would never bet against her.