Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Read online

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t remember her name, but she was from the Fellowship Church.”

  Evan made a note. Religious zealots were known to hurt people to further their causes. She remembered the clerk at Green Medicine saying the brownies came in a variety of packages. “Where are the wrapped, ready-to-deliver products stored?”

  “Back here.” Ursula led them past a still-warm oven to a shelf along the back wall. She gestured at the empty space. “There’s nothing there now, because John just loaded it all into the van and I’m still working on the next batch.”

  Sophie started to speak, then caught herself and went quiet again.

  Evans almost smiled. The reporter was used to asking questions, so being a bystander was probably driving her crazy. Evans wanted to understand how only one of the brownies the photographer had bought had contained poison. “Tell me about the packaging.”

  “We send some brownies out in packages of six or twelve, and others are individually wrapped. We do more of the smaller bundles. The twelve-packs are mostly for parties, or for people who like to buy in bulk for the discount, then freeze them.”

  The photographer could have bought three or four individual brownies, each wrapped in cellophane. But how and when did the perp get the poison into the single packages? Did he inject them with a syringe? “Are you sure no one comes back here?”

  Ursula shook her head. “No. We’re a true mom-and-pop operation.”

  “What about delivery people?” Sophie burst out. “Where do they drop off?”

  Ursula pointed to a door in between the sets of shelves. It was made of the same gray metal as the walls, so it blended right in. “They park out back and ring the buzzer. Sometimes I take a handoff from them, or if it’s a big delivery, they come in, usually pushing a hand truck.”

  Could the poisoner be a supplier? Evans glanced at her notes. Eggs and honey were delivered. “What other local supplies arrive at your back door?”

  “Milk from Kepler’s Dairy.”

  “Do you know the delivery people by name? Are they always the same?”

  “It’s been the same three guys for a few months now. The egg man from Eggelicious is named Sam, but I don’t know the other two.”

  “Are they ever alone back here?” It wouldn’t take long to stick a syringe in a brownie or two.

  Ursula looked near tears again, and she twisted her hands in distress. “No. I’m right here all the time.” The front door opened, and they all turned. Ursula started forward, then froze. She turned back to Evans. “Unless a customer comes in while they’re making a delivery.”

  They needed names and background checks on the delivery people ASAP.

  CHAPTER 29

  Friday, December 4, 2:55 p.m.

  Jackson knocked on Chief Warner’s door. The fact that it was closed made him tense. The chief didn’t like to be interrupted when he was focused on critical issues. But he also didn’t like to hear about shit going on in the community through calls from the public. He preferred to get bad news early, from his own people.

  “I’m on the phone!” the chief shouted from the other side of the wall.

  Jackson assessed his options, then wrote the chief a brief note: Someone, possibly the shooter, is poisoning pot brownies. Many citizens potentially at risk. Task force meeting now.

  He stepped into the office, handed the note to his irritated boss, and rushed back out. The chief might not make the meeting, but at least he’d been warned. By the time Jackson returned to the conference room, the space was full and someone had brought in chairs from another office. He’d asked DA Slonecker, someone from the crime lab, and their liaison to the FBI to attend. In addition, Sophie was just outside the room at an empty desk. It unnerved him to have the reporter so close to his workspace, but if the poisoner called her again—and instinct indicated he would—they needed to engage him and track the call. With as many people as they’d gathered, Jackson considered moving the meeting to the main conference and training room downstairs, then decided against it. The gathering would be brief—just long enough to form a plan of action.

  He set his satchel and coffee at the end of the table, then reached for the phone in the middle. The director of the Oregon Poison Center in Portland would join them via conference call. He turned to Agent River on his left and shook her hand.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “I’m happy I was available.” Her broad, pleasant face was surprisingly troubled. “I’m not sure I can contribute much in the way of experience with product poisoning, but our resources are at your disposal.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  The conference phone rang, and Jackson said over the chatter, “Let’s get started.”

  The room went quiet as he answered the call and put it on speakerphone.

  “This is Elsie Wayland, assistant director of the Oregon Poison Center. The director was unable to participate, so I’m stepping in.”

  “Thank you.” Jackson looked at Joe from the crime lab. “Do you have an update on the brownie samples we collected?”

  “I’m sorry, but no.” The forensic technician looked uncomfortable. “We sent them to the state lab, but it’s backed up as usual.”

  Wayland cut in. “Do you have more samples to send us? We can test them more quickly.”

  “Yes,” Jackson responded. “We have new samples from the kitchen where they’re made. We think it’s the source of the poison.”

  “Didn’t you say you had a culprit who’d called and admitted his involvement?” The poison expert sounded a little confused.

  “Yes, but we still don’t know how he’s getting access to the products.” Jackson wanted to keep things moving along. “What we need from you is help with identifying the poison. The doctors are stumped, and both patients may die. Also, knowing the type of poison might help us narrow down our list of suspects.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  Jackson looked at Evans. She said, “Lots of vomiting, with dizziness, decreased heart rate, and low blood pressure.”

  Wayland asked, “Have you seen the vomit?”

  Evans made a face. “Yes. It’s dark and stinks badly.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?” Jackson was suddenly more worried for Lammers.

  “It may be plant based,” Wayland explained. “Many of our common blooming shrubs are poisonous. Azaleas, rhododendrons, foxglove, and oleander are just a few.”

  “How do you treat such poisoning?”

  “For most of those plants, the only treatment is activated charcoal to absorb the poison. And whatever lifesaving measures are called for.”

  The room was silent.

  Finally, Evans said, “The doctors are already doing all that. What are their chances of survival?”

  The poison expert hesitated. “That depends on how much was ingested and the age and health of the victim. Children are more likely to die, because their systems can’t handle the toxic overload.” She quickly added, “But grayanotoxin poisoning from rhododendrons—which is the most likely cause—is rarely lethal for adults. After several days of violent vomiting, they usually recover . . . unless they have other medical conditions.”

  Jackson didn’t want to think about the sick child. “Do you have any experience with psychopaths who kill by poisoning random strangers? Any profile?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Almost everything we handle is accidental.”

  Agent River spoke up. “I can help with a profile. I did a quick search of the database before I came over.” She looked down at her notepad. “The subject is likely to be male and middle-aged. Someone with a grievance. Because he’s making contact and talking about the crime, he probably wants to be caught.” She paused, but no one challenged or questioned her. River continued. “And I noticed that in each of the cases I skimmed, the poisoner had some kind of specialty, something that made him feel uniquely knowledgeable.”

  Interestin
g. “That could be helpful,” Jackson said. “We have three delivery people with access to the commercial kitchen.”

  “Who are they?” The question came from Agent River and Slonecker at the same time.

  Jackson turned to the other detectives on his team. Each had been assigned one of the suspects to investigate and dig up everything they could—in the hour or so they’d had since Evans reported from the Hightones kitchen.

  The door opened, and they all looked over as Chief Warner strode into the room. He grabbed a chair with one hand and gestured with the other. “Keep going. I’ll interrupt if I need brief background info.”

  Evans went first. “Hightones has eggs delivered every three days from Eggelicious.” She gave a curt smile. “Hey, it’s Eugene. Organic and all that. The regular delivery person for Hightones is Sam Allsap.” She read his stats from her notes. “Thirty-eight, married with three kids, no criminal record. He’s worked for the chicken farm for eight years.”

  “Any info on his religious or political beliefs?” Jackson asked.

  “His boss says he’s not political at all and has never heard him talk about the new marijuana law.”

  “Any specialty?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Not that I know of. Sorry.” Evans’ brow creased. “I didn’t have your profile information when I was making calls.”

  “We can pick him up for questioning,” Jackson said. “But I don’t think he’s our perp.”

  “I don’t either,” Agent River added.

  The chief, an older man with a square face, cleared his throat before speaking. “Are we strictly focused on the perp who’s doing the poisoning? Or is all this connected to the shooting at the pot farm? I haven’t been updated.” He stared at Jackson.

  “Sorry, but we’ve been overwhelmed with suspects and drug deals and now the poisoning.” Jackson almost mentioned the lack of adequate staff, then moved on. “We think the poisoner might also be the shooter.” An image of the room full of dead plants flashed in his mind. “Someone poisoned the crop at Riverside Farms, and it likely happened at the time of the murder.”

  “I thought two people were shot,” Chief Warner said. “One survived?”

  “Yes, she’s an undercover DEA agent.” Jackson hoped he didn’t have to get into that angle right now. “The siblings who owned the pot farm were trafficking meth too, and caught the DEA’s attention for a sting. But for the safety of the public, we have to focus on the poisoner.”

  Evans added, “If the poisoner isn’t the shooter, we have three other suspects in custody on other charges who might be.”

  “What a clusterfuck.” The chief shook his head. “Continue.”

  Schak sat up straighter and looked at his notes. “The guy who delivers milk to the pot kitchen is named Al Bradshaw. He’s sixty-three and a retired teacher. The delivery gig is a part-time job that’s he’s done for two years. He’s a widow with three grown children and seven grandchildren.”

  “What did he teach?” Agent River asked.

  “Chemistry.”

  A quiet moment.

  The poison expert chimed in from the conference phone. “If I’m wrong about the poison being plant based, then a chemistry expert would be my next guess for a culprit.”

  Jackson thought so too. “Let’s pick up Bradshaw right away. Any idea where to find him?”

  “I have his address and phone number, and he’s off work today,” Schak said.

  Jackson nodded. “You and Quince go get him right after the meeting.”

  Quince spoke up. “The third guy is interesting too. Paul Gibson is a beekeeper with a small honey-production business. He sells different varieties of honey. Since he’s self-employed, I couldn’t find anyone to ask about his work history. But county records show that he’s married and had one child, a girl named Anna. She died in a car accident a few years ago.”

  A tingle ran up Jackson’s spine. “Was she stoned at the time?”

  “Drugs and alcohol were definitely the cause.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Wayland’s voice trembled over the speakerphone. “The specialty honey is intriguing. If bees consume all their nectar from poisonous plants like rhodies and azaleas, the honey they produce is toxic. A person poisoned with such honey could vomit for days and possibly die of heart failure.”

  Nearly everyone stood at the same time. “Where is his bee farm?” Jackson asked.

  “Off Coburg Road, past Armitage Park.” Quince read the address. “I want to pick him up.”

  “Yes. Evans, you’ll go with us too,” Jackson said. “Do we know what he drives?”

  “A white Chevy van.” Quince pulled on his overcoat.

  Jackson turned to Schak. “Sorry. You still need to bring in the chemist.” He wished he had a bigger team. He leaned toward the phone in the middle of the table. “Ms. Wayland? Would you please call North McKenzie Hospital and share your theory with the doctors treating the two poisoned patients?”

  “Of course. What are their names?”

  Evans looked at Jackson with panic. He nodded at her. They couldn’t hide this any longer.

  She swallowed hard. “The boy is Shane Edward. He’s only six. The other victim is an adult woman. Denise Lammers.”

  A stunned silence. Finally, the chief turned to Jackson. “Come see me in my office as soon as you have this situation under control.” The boss walked out.

  How much trouble was he in for protecting Lammers? It didn’t matter. “Let’s move before the poisoner strikes again.” His phone beeped, and he glanced at it. A text from Sophie: He’s on the line again. I’m coming in.

  “Wait!” Jackson called everyone back. “He contacted the reporter again. She’s bringing the call in here. We need it quiet so we don’t spook him.”

  CHAPTER 30

  From her spot in the hallway, Sophie heard the room go quiet, so she hurried in. Everyone was standing around the conference table. Not surprising, considering what she’d heard. The chief had left the door partially open when he’d entered the meeting late, and she’d moved from the empty cube to the floor right outside the conference room. She’d heard a list of suspects and a plan of action. Then the lunatic had called again, and she’d texted Jackson.

  “Did you hear me?” the crazy man yelled in her ear.

  “Sorry, you caught me at a bad time, and I’m trying to focus.” She gently set the phone on the table. The tension in the room made her heart pound. Damn. She loved being part of this. “But yes, I called several state representatives. Only one answered, and she said she’d talk to the house leader about holding a special session to discuss your concerns.” The politician had actually told her to call the police, then hung up.

  “What about the public?” he demanded. “Have you warned them yet?”

  “I posted an article online, but our next print edition doesn’t go out until the morning.” Sophie glanced at Jackson. He’d pulled out a recorder and set it next to her phone. Now he gestured for her to keep going. “I’m doing the best I can to comply.”

  A strapping woman stepped over and peered at the incoming number. Oh right. Agent River with the FBI. They’d met after the eco-terrorist standoff. River hurried out of the room with her own cell phone in hand.

  “I guess I’d better call the TV stations,” the perp said, sounding disappointed. “It’s time to get the word out to everyone else who doesn’t like this law. There are millions of us, and we can get it repealed. They all need to call their representatives.”

  “But a repeal takes time,” Sophie said, stalling. “You have to be patient. Poisoning children isn’t the right way to handle this.”

  “What children?” The perp sounded scared.

  “A little boy is in the hospital dying.”

  A muffled sound. “That’s the problem. Goddamn potheads don’t keep this shit away from their kids.”

  Schak shifted, and his chair scraped the floor.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I moved my chair.”


  “You called the cops, didn’t you? They’re tracking my call. Bitch.” The poisoner hung up.

  Sophie picked up her phone as Jackson announced, “The plan hasn’t changed. He’s probably calling from another public phone. We’ll wait for him at his home.”

  Agent River stepped back into the room. “We located the number. It’s a landline at Crescent Medical Clinic.”

  Jackson started giving orders. “Quince, swing by the phone location. He’ll be gone, but look for a witness. Get a patrol car out there too.”

  “I’ll join him as well,” River said.

  “Thanks.” Jackson pivoted. “Evans, you and I are still headed to Gibson’s home on Meadow Lane. He’s probably on his way there now.” Jackson grabbed his satchel and started for the door.

  Sophie felt left out. But that was fine. She would follow Jackson’s car. She could start writing her story on her laptop while she watched and waited. She hung back as the detectives scurried out of the room. A man in a pin-striped suit had waited too. She thought she recognized him. Oh yeah, the district attorney. She introduced herself as they walked out together.

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “I read your articles. You do a great job.”

  That surprised her. “Thanks. I’d love to interview you sometime about your job. We’ve had so many weird murders lately. It must be challenging to keep up with.”

  “Considering the budget I work with, it’s almost impossible.” Slonecker picked up his pace.

  She stayed with him as they reached the parking lot. “Any theories about why so many people are suddenly killing family members and roommates?”

  The DA stopped at his car, a dark sedan. “Money and drugs. Not enough of the former and too much of the latter.” He opened his car door.

  “About that interview,” she called out.

  “Too late. My circumstances have changed, and I’m leaving the job soon to run for attorney general.”

  So the rumor was true. “We could talk about that instead.” She smiled brightly. “Newspaper coverage is just what you need to launch a campaign.”