Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 23

  She turned into Stalling’s driveway, thinking the house was already starting to look abandoned. No cars were in view, newspapers were piled up on the porch, and the grass had sprouted weeds. What would happen to this place when McCoy went to prison? Neither of the siblings had children, so there didn’t seem to be an heir. Would it just sit here, unclaimed? Was death the explanation for some of the empty abandoned homes around town? Evans shook off the gloom she’d been feeling since shooting Conner Harron and trotted up to the porch. The key was under an empty clay pot where Quince had stashed it after finding it on a key chain in the kitchen. Someone had already torn down the crime-scene tape. Who had been back here? Jackson?

  Inside the house, she headed straight for the bedroom and looked at the basketball trophies up close. Yep. Same year, same team. After taking a few snapshots, she looked around. Where would Stalling have kept a yearbook? She hadn’t spotted a bookshelf in her first crime-scene search, and she didn’t remember seeing any high school stuff. But Jackson had sent her to the hospital to question the wounded victim, so she hadn’t been present for the whole search. The dresser? She rifled through the drawers, then moved to the closet. Stalling had a few sentimental items—such as a kid’s baseball glove and a collection of basketball jerseys—but no books. The sports angle surprised her. Who would have figured the pot grower with a problem-filled past had once been an athlete?

  An open box on the top shelf caught her attention. Evans pulled it down, noticing the items were in disarray. Schak or Quince had already rummaged through it. A few toys, childhood drawings, and a collection of comic books. Under the comics were two blue yearbooks. Yes! The dates indicated these were from Stalling’s junior and senior years. She flipped quickly through the pages, looking for group shots of basketball players. She found one of the whole team, but it didn’t help her pinpoint the third friend in the trio. In the back, she found the individual photos in alphabetical order. She found Conner Harron first, a handsome young man with longish hair and a crooked smile. Several pages later, she spotted Josh Stalling. Boy, had he changed in twenty years. He’d lost a lot of hair in front and gained thirty pounds. How to find the third friend?

  Inscriptions! Maybe the other player had signed the book or even written something. Evans turned to the back page, and a photo slipped out. She scooped it off the floor and stared. Three young men in blue-and-white basketball uniforms stood next to a row of lockers. Stalling, Harron, and a third young man with dark hair and eyes. She knew the face but couldn’t place it. Evans flipped the photo over, looking for a label, and found a message signed by the third player.

  Holy shit!

  CHAPTER 35

  Saturday, December 5, 10:17 a.m.

  Jackson searched the last shelf in the beekeeper’s garage and pulled off his gloves. No guns anywhere. He and his team had spent hours out here, but other than the dead wife in the freezer—a first in his career—nothing of interest had turned up. Gibson had admitted she’d died ten days earlier, and he’d panicked and stored her body out of fear of being arrested. He claimed she accidentally consumed some of the poisoned honey and had died of a heart attack while vomiting. The autopsy would confirm everything but the accidental part. Considering that Gibson had purposely poisoned strangers, it was easy to believe he’d experimented with toxic doses on his wife first. But if her death had been intentional, why hadn’t he planned for the aftermath?

  Glad to be done in the dusty garage, Jackson went back into the house. Schak, who was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, looked up.

  “I really wanted to make a pot of coffee,” his partner joked, “but I’m afraid to consume anything in this house.” He held up the glass. “Even this was risky, considering it’s coming from a well.”

  “If you get sick, don’t expect me to soothe you while you puke.”

  “Ha! What kind of friend are you?”

  “I’ll never put you in a freezer, even if you start to stink.” The freakishness of that image kept him from enjoying his own humor. “Let’s get out of here. The technicians can handle the rest.”

  “Great idea. I’ll get Quince. He’s out back, checking the woodshed and whatever that other building is.”

  Jackson conferred with Jasmine Parker about how the technicians would collect some of the bees, then headed for his car. His phone rang before he got there. The call center. Again. His gut tightened. “Jackson here.”

  “We have another death. An accident in the shower. Are you ready for the details?”

  Good grief. No, he wasn’t ready. But at least it wouldn’t be a major investigation. Jackson started to tell her to call another detective, then remembered he was filling in for Lammers and it was his job to assign the case to someone. Detective Davis from the other Violent Crimes team was next up in the rotation. Jackson set his satchel on the hood of his car and pulled out a fresh notepad. “Okay. What have we got?”

  The dispatcher read the address, then said, “The husband found his wife dead in the bathroom and is at the scene. Should I send an ambulance?”

  “Did he say when it happened?”

  “No, but he seemed positive she was dead.”

  “Then just call the medical examiner, please.”

  “Of course. I know you have your hands full. This week has been crazy!”

  She didn’t know the half of it. “Yes, it has.”

  Jackson called Davis, who didn’t answer, so he left a message for the other detective to call back. But this couldn’t wait. He notified Schak and Quince of where he was heading, an address that seemed vaguely familiar. “Don’t worry—we’re not taking this one. I’ll turn the case over to Davis as soon as he shows up.”

  “You know Lammers isn’t coming back to work,” Schak said. “The chief will push you to take the position permanently. You could end up behind the desk, taking the calls every day.”

  “Not likely.” Jackson made a dismissive gesture. “He’ll give it to a patrol sergeant again. I’ll see you back at the department soon.” He turned toward his car, not wanting to think about the issue yet. He’d never wanted to be an administrator, but now that he had Benjie and Micah to care for, the regular hours tempted him.

  He backtracked down Coburg Road, crossed the downtown area, and headed past the university. The death-scene address was in an area of older homes between the college and the freeway, often referred to as Moon Mountain, after one of the main streets in the area. The homes were a mix of sizes and styles, but they were all overvalued because of their proximity to the campus.

  The house he’d been summoned to sat on the main artery, and he noticed the sound of the freeway when he stepped out of the car. A dull background noise that the people inside probably never heard. With two levels, a wide porch, and thick columns, the home was larger than most of its neighbors. A patrol car was parked in the street, because two vehicles took up the entire driveway. Jackson was glad only one unit had shown up—so far. For an accidental death, they didn’t need a full response, and the fewer people he had to deal with before his replacement arrived, the better.

  The front door stood partially open, and he walked in. Voices in the back drew him down a hallway into a massive bedroom. A police officer stood guard next to the master-bath door. The uniformed man heard Jackson and turned, revealing the homeowner in the chair behind him.

  The district attorney!

  CHAPTER 36

  The poor man. Jackson had never known what to call Slonecker, but given the circumstances, a first name seemed best. “Victor, what happened? I’m so sorry.”

  The DA stepped toward him, visibly shaken. “I was out playing tennis this morning, and when I came back, I headed for the shower and found Heather on the floor.” He gulped for air. “I think she hit her head on the toilet.”

  A head injury. He hated looking at those up close. But Jackson moved toward the bathroom anyway, praying Detective Davis would call or show soon.

  Slonecker was still talking. “Heather was recover
ing from a broken ankle and just starting to walk again. I worried about her every time she got in the shower.”

  The sight of the woman, facedown and naked, made him flinch. Heather Slonecker was pale and overweight and took up a good portion of the floor. But it was the heinous gash in her forehead that was hardest to look at. Her head was turned, making her neck look broken, but giving him a clear view of her wound. Her feet were near the shower, and her head lay against the white toilet. Staring at the nakedness of his coworker’s wife unnerved him too.

  Where the hell was his replacement? Normally, Jackson would have taken photos before anything was touched or moved, but he couldn’t do that with Victor Slonecker standing there. Jackson turned back, stepped out of the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.

  He touched the DA’s arm, urging him to exit the bedroom. “Another detective is on his way to process the scene. Gunderson too, of course. Let’s go sit down in the living room.” Jackson nodded at the patrol officer. “Take some photos, please.”

  Jackson’s phone rang, and he grabbed it from his pocket. Evans. He moved into the kitchen to get away from the grieving husband and picked up the call. “Make it fast; I have a situation here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Victor Slonecker’s wife fell and hit her head on the toilet. Looks like it killed her instantly. I’ve called Davis to handle this case, but he hasn’t responded, so I’m here.”

  “Oh shit. Can Slonecker hear you?”

  He’d never heard Evans sound so panicked. “I don’t think so, but I’ll take the call outside. What’s going on?” Jackson stepped into the big garage and closed the door. A light came on automatically, illuminating tables covered with yard signs.

  “I found a link between Josh Stalling and Conner Harron,” Evans said. “Harron is the man who died in the hostage-standoff situation Thursday.”

  Unusual. But not significant in itself.

  She continued. “They were best friends in high school. They played basketball together for years and were even roommates for a while.”

  Evans would never waste his time. And she was often the first to find connections. This had to be important. “What are you saying? I know it’s odd that they died a day apart, but you must have more than that.”

  “None of Harron’s neighbors made the 911 call or saw him with a weapon. Remember I told you I think he was swatted? I believe it was by someone he knew. Someone who expected him to pick up a weapon and get himself killed.”

  “Murder by cop? You think Stalling and Harron were targeted a day apart by the same person?”

  “Yes. They were also in contact with each other by phone two weeks ago. There was a third guy in their little high school basketball circle. Victor Slonecker. Whose wife just mysteriously died.”

  Good god. The district attorney? A killer? It was hard to process. Slonecker had been putting criminals in prison for ten years. “Why the hell would he suddenly kill his two best friends from high school?” Jackson paced back and forth between the tables in the garage.

  “I don’t know yet. But maybe Slonecker’s wife did know. Maybe that’s why he killed her too.”

  Jackson’s pulse pounded in his temples. He had to handle this delicately. Slonecker’s work as a DA would make him cagey and hard to manipulate. Hard to convict too. Jackson tensed again. No way could he pass this case off to Detective Davis. Jackson stopped and looked down at one of the yard signs on the table. “Slonecker for Attorney General.” So the DA was planning a run for the top prosecutor position in the state. Had his old friends tried to blackmail him with dirty secrets from the past?

  “Jackson, are you there?” Evans was still on the line.

  “Yes. I’m forming a theory.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Or something like it. Slonecker is going to run for the AG job next fall.”

  “I’m on my way there.” Evans sounded a little calmer now.

  She must have been worried that he wouldn’t take her seriously. If Slonecker’s wife hadn’t just died, Jackson might not have. “Get Schak and Quince here too.” Jackson hurried back into the house. How would he convince Slonecker to come into the department to make a statement without tipping him off?

  He found the DA in the living room, talking on his cell phone. The suspect hung up when Jackson came in. Slonecker turned to him. “I was calling Heather’s sister. She’s devastated, of course.”

  “What’s her name?” Just to keep him talking.

  “Emily.” He twisted his hands. “I’m still in shock. I know when this finally hits me, I’m going to fall apart.”

  “Do you have other family?”

  “No.” Slonecker gave a sad smile, then sank into the couch.

  Jackson needed to establish a timeline of that morning’s events. “I didn’t know you played tennis.”

  “Took it up a few years ago when my knees couldn’t handle basketball anymore.”

  “Who did you play tennis with? I’ve never considered the game.”

  “Ron Carter, one of the assistant DAs. You know him.”

  If the DA had killed his wife, he’d probably done it beforehand, then gone to his tennis match to establish an alibi. Gunderson needed to get here and establish a time of death. “So what time did you leave the house? You know I have to ask.”

  Slonecker locked eyes with him. “Yes, it’s your job. But you know me! This was an accident.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a bad week here for deaths.” Time to test him a little. “First, Josh Stalling and his girlfriend were shot. Then the SWAT standoff that resulted in the tragic death of Conner Harron.”

  Slonecker nodded, his face impassive. “The deaths were shocking. But I wouldn’t call Harron’s demise tragic.”

  A little judgment in his tone? “You knew him?”

  “I played basketball with him in high school. That was long ago.”

  The DA was smart enough not to deny his connection. “Why isn’t Harron’s shooting tragic?”

  “He was a troubled man who abused his wife. I’m not surprised by what happened.”

  “You stayed in touch with Harron?”

  “Lord no.” Slonecker shuddered. “But my job is to read police reports. I knew he’d been arrested several times.” The DA stood. “I’m pretty distressed. I think I’ll get a drink. You want one?”

  “No thank you.” Jackson followed him to the kitchen, noting a whisky tumbler on the counter. Had Slonecker already had alcohol? But that could be a normal reaction to stress and grief. “Maybe you should get out of the house for a while. Come into the department with me and make a statement so you can get this part over with.”

  Slonecker, with one hand on a bottle of scotch, spun toward him. “Why would I do that? Do you doubt me?”

  “It’s just the process.”

  The DA poured a drink and sat down at the kitchen table. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here, grieving, and having you question me.” He didn’t look at Jackson. “I knew I would be suspected. No matter what my standing in the community. The husband always is.” He shook his head, as if disappointed. “But you’re wasting your time. Heather died right there in the bathroom, with her head against the edge of the toilet.”

  Pretty specific for someone who hadn’t been home to witness it. “Then I’m sure the autopsy will confirm it.” Jackson decided to treat him like he would anyone else, just for a moment. “Were you and your wife having any troubles?”

  Slonecker jerked his head up. “You need to back off. I just lost my spouse of twenty years.”

  Wrong tone. This week had pushed Jackson to his limit. Seeing another law-enforcement representative turn out to be a criminal was more than he could take. “Let’s talk about Josh Stalling. You knew him too.”

  “So? That was high school.”

  The front door banged open, and Jackson turned in the direction of the footsteps. Evans, followed by a male patrol officer. Evans nodded and stood next to him at the counter. The patrol of
ficer asked, “What do you need me to do?”

  “Search the house for weapons.”

  Slonecker jumped up. “No! You do not have my permission.”

  Was the gun he’d used to shoot Stalling still in the house? No, the DA was too smart for that.

  The patrol officer didn’t move.

  Evans stepped toward Slonecker. “What promise did you make Stalling and Harron?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The inscription on the back of a photo of the three of you. You guys had a pact. What was it about?”

  Slonecker’s face tightened.

  Jackson noticed the DA had finished his second drink. Not good. Alcohol made people unpredictable, and Slonecker was under a lot of stress.

  The DA shook his head. “I have no idea. That was a long time ago.”

  “Three people you know personally died this week,” Jackson said. “I think you’d better come with us to the department.”

  In a flash, Slonecker put his foot on a chair, reached into an ankle holster, and jerked a small gun to his head. Jackson, Evans, and the patrol officer all pulled their weapons.

  Pulse escalating, Jackson spoke softly. “Put it down. You don’t want to hurt yourself. Enough people have died.”

  “Get out of here, all of you! I need to be alone.”

  What the hell was he thinking? The DA had to know they weren’t going anywhere. Jackson almost didn’t care if the man shot himself. Except for the closure aspect. He wanted to know what the hell the deaths had been about. “Tell me what happened. Did Stalling and Harron try to blackmail you?”

  Slonecker let out a harsh laugh. “Why do you care? They wasted their lives.”

  “So you thought they deserved to die?”

  CHAPTER 37

  Slonecker fought the overwhelming urge to tell them everything. Although some moments—like pulling the trigger on Josh—had been stressful, he’d made peace with the deaths of his ex-friends. But this morning’s incident with his wife had put him over the edge, and everything was spinning out of control. He even felt a little dizzy. Maybe he shouldn’t have had the second drink on an empty stomach.