Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 5

  “I’m on it.” She trotted back out, and he heard her making a call.

  Jacob finally sat, so Jackson asked, “What’s Ella’s address?”

  “It’s near Third and Monroe. I don’t know the numbers.”

  He would find it. Jackson excused himself and met Evans out in the foyer. “I’ll question Henry now and see if he tells the same story. We also need an address for the shed they sleep in at night.”

  “I’ll get Jacob to give us permission to search it.”

  “That’s my thinking.” Jackson stepped into the small, dark room next door. It was much like the one in the previous building, only this time, they had a metal table and modern technology. But he wasn’t videotaping these interviews. Not yet. He put his personal recorder out, clicked into a new file, and repeated his cover phrase. “Thanks for waiting, Henry. I appreciate your coming here to voluntarily answer questions.”

  “Did you talk to Jacob?”

  Where his brother had twitched, Henry vibrated. “I did. And he told me you were mad when Officer Thompson ran out of blankets and didn’t give you one.”

  “I sometimes sound mad when I’m not.”

  “Did you hurt Officer Thompson?”

  “No.” Henry looked away.

  To hide his guilt? “What happened after he told you there were no more blankets?”

  “Jacob asked for money. He said he didn’t have any.” Vibrating and rocking now. “So we went to our special place.”

  “The shed where you sleep?”

  The suspect made a surprised sound. “No, that’s just a shed. Our special place is in the trees.”

  Had his brother forgotten or lied? “What did you do there?”

  A long pause. “We made a campfire and sang. Like we used to with Daddy.” He jumped up like Jacob had. “Why do you ask these questions? We don’t make trouble and no one bothers us.”

  “Sit down. Officer Thompson is dead. Do you know what happened?”

  He complied, but his eyes blinked rapidly and he let out a moan. “We liked him. He didn’t hurt people like the other cops do.”

  Jackson experienced a flush of shame for the department brutes who used excessive force on street people. “Do you know who hurt Officer Thompson?”

  “No.” His wide-open eyes didn’t look away, but he shifted constantly in his chair.

  Jackson didn’t know if he believed him. “You’re going to be in here for a little while longer. But we’ll give you a new jacket and a blanket soon.”

  “What about lunch?”

  “That too.”

  Another twenty minutes of questions produced nothing useful except that the Walsh twins had met Ella, the owner of their sleeping shed, at the community outreach day at the fairgrounds, where homeless people could get free services such as haircuts and dental exams. They were only allowed in the shed at night, and they could never bring anyone else with them. They liked it better than sleeping at the Mission because they didn’t have a curfew and didn’t have to listen to “God talk.” But they still went to the Mission for breakfast.

  A knock on the door gave him a sense of relief. A desk clerk stood outside with large plastic shopping sacks. “I bought two shades of blue. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks.” Jackson took the bags, noticing she’d bought warm, stylish jackets with lots of zippered pockets. “I’ll reimburse petty cash with my expense account.” He knocked on the other interrogation room and stepped in. “Hey, Jacob. I have some new things for you. Why don’t you try on this jacket?” Since the man was wearing black, Jackson held out the dark-blue one but didn’t let go. “Please hand me the one you’re wearing.”

  “Why? I want both.”

  “I’d like to check yours. That way I can clear you of suspicion in Officer Thompson’s death.”

  “You suspect me?” Confusion made Jacob look like he was about to cry.

  “We have to question everyone who was near the camp. We have to check the clothes of everyone who talked to the officer. This is how we do our job.” Jackson used his best we’re-all-in-this-together voice. “Officer Thompson was a good man, and we need to find his killer. We need to make the streets safe for everyone. You want to help us, don’t you?”

  Jacob took a moment to process the information, then finally pulled off his jacket and handed it to Jackson while reaching for the new one.

  “Thank you. You can have this too.” Jackson pulled a thick plaid lap blanket from the second bag. “I’ll give Henry one too.”

  Jacob put the blanket on his chair, zipped the new jacket, and checked out the pockets. “I like this, but I hate the smell.”

  Jackson smiled. Only a homeless person would hate the smell of new clothes.

  Evans spoke up. “You were just telling me about someone who threatened Officer Thompson.”

  “No.” Jacob shook his head. “Boxer just hates all cops.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they like to beat him.” Anger tightened his already pinched face. “Some will hit you if you don’t move fast enough. And Boxer is slow. He’s injured from the war.”

  Jackson tapped Evans’ shoulder, signaling that they would have Boxer picked up, then stepped out. He knew the abuse happened, and he hated it, and he decided to talk to the chief about it later. For now, he couldn’t let it distract him. A street person had likely stabbed a fellow officer in the throat and gut with a broken beer bottle, and he had to find that killer. He couldn’t let unrelated compassion derail this investigation.

  Outside the confined space, he stuffed Jacob’s jacket into a large paper evidence bag. They didn’t use plastic for clothing, especially if it was damp or bloody. When he entered the other room, Henry was standing again. Jackson tensed, put his bags on the floor, and kept his distance. He’d searched the suspect for weapons before putting him in the car, but the man wore so many layers of clothes that he could easily hide a knife in the folds. The talk about Boxer’s hatred for uniformed officers had made Jackson wary. He held out the other new jacket and gave Henry the same spiel about clearing him and helping find the killer. Henry peeled off his stained green jacket and made the trade before Jackson finished his plea. The suspect pulled on the new one. “It’s warmer.”

  “It looks good too. Please sit down. I want to show you something.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I know. I’ll bring you a sandwich in just a minute.”

  Henry sat.

  Jackson reached for his carryall. “Do you ever get into fights?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever hear anyone threaten Officer Thompson?”

  “No.”

  Interesting that he didn’t mention Boxer. Jackson put the evidence bag with the broken beer bottle on the table. “Have you—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. Henry started wailing, a high-pitched sound of distress unlike anything Jackson had ever heard. He retracted the weapon and tried to calm him, but Henry ran for the door and pounded.

  What now? Take him to jail, where a doctor could sedate him? It would be hours before he got medication, and the intake process would only make his mental state worse. But Jackson couldn’t let him back out on the street. His reaction to the bloody weapon made him a viable suspect. They had to hold him until they could process the fingerprints they’d taken and see if the stain on his jacket was blood. The DNA analysis would take days beyond that.

  “Please sit down. I’ll go get some food.”

  Pounding started on the wall between the interrogation rooms, and his brother called out Henry’s name.

  Oh boy. They were both agitated now. Jackson grabbed his carryall and the evidence bag and moved toward the door. “Step aside!”

  Henry continued wailing and pounding.

  Crap! He had a Taser in his car, but he would never u
se it in this situation anyway. He wasn’t being threatened. Jackson gently pushed Henry aside, stepped out, and closed the door. Maybe food would help.

  Evans came out of the second interrogation room, shaking her head. “What now?”

  “Let’s get them some sandwiches.”

  “What about giving them some booze? Maybe they’re in withdrawal.”

  He hated the idea, but if it produced information, he would go along. He stepped back into the room and tried to catch Henry’s attention. “Would you like a beer? Would that calm you down?”

  “It’s too early,” Henry shouted. “We don’t drink during the day.”

  Surprised, Jackson said, “You could make an exception.”

  “Mom said one beer, after dinner. No exceptions.” Henry went back to pacing and talking to himself.

  Jackson stepped out of the room and saw a desk clerk coming down the stairs. “Sidney Willow is here,” the clerk said. “She claims to represent the twins and wants to see them immediately.”

  Evans cursed, but Jackson held his tongue. This situation was a potential public relations fiasco. Willow, as she called herself, was a law student and a self-appointed spokesperson for the homeless. She talked to the media and gave speeches to the city council. She was not only a voice for street people but an organizer too. Ever since the Occupy movement, Willow had encouraged the homeless to camp in public places, defying ordinances against it, and she’d finally won the city’s approval for designated supervised camping sites. The department had been treading lightly around the whole issue.

  “We can’t let her hear them wailing like that,” Jackson finally said. “But we don’t have a reason to book them.”

  Evans gave an emphatic head shake. “You can’t let them go until the lab processes their fingerprints.”

  Jackson turned to the desk clerk. “Tell Ms. Willow that the twins have not asked to see a lawyer, so she can leave.” To Evans, he said, “Get them sandwiches and soda and play some mellow music. I’ll take everything to the lab.”

  “So we’re stalling.”

  “At least until the task force meets.” He gave her a tight smile. “Will you write a subpoena too? We need to get their DNA.”

  The desk clerk hadn’t moved. “You need to talk to Willow. She’s pretty insistent, and I think she’ll just ignore me.”

  Resigned to the confrontation, Jackson headed upstairs.

  Willow stood in the middle of the bright lobby, a petite woman with a big picket sign that read “Sleep Is a Right.” Did she carry that everywhere? She had a pageboy haircut and wore a brown tunic that came to her knees, making her look like an extra in Game of Thrones.

  Jackson approached her and introduced himself.

  “I’m Willow. I represent Henry and Jacob Walsh, and I want to be present during their questioning.” Despite her size, her voice was throaty and powerful.

  “The twins haven’t asked for a lawyer, so I’m not letting you see them until they do.”

  “They’re not fully capable of understanding their situation or their rights. You have to let me see them.”

  “No. I have to investigate a murder, and the twins were the last people to see Officer Thompson alive.”

  “They didn’t kill anyone!” Almost a shout.

  “Then the evidence will prove that. We have to do our jobs, and your presence here is interfering.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get to see them.”

  The thing that had been nagging at him surfaced. “How did you know they were here?”

  “The homeless community looks out for each other. Someone at the Mission saw you pick them up and called me. I want to see them.”

  “Not until they ask for you.”

  “You’re taking advantage of their diminished capacity, and it’s not right. I’m calling the media. And the citizens’ advisory board.”

  She meant well, but at that moment he hated her. “I have to get back to work.” Jackson headed for the front door, wondering if she was right. But that was their job—to exploit any opportunity to solve crimes.

  “Did you read them their rights?” Willow called after him.

  He ignored her and jogged to his car. He had to get the coats and the weapon to the lab and get them processed before this case turned into a public relations nightmare.

  CHAPTER 7

  Saturday, November 22, 3:05 p.m.

  At the crime lab, Jackson learned that a technician had found the broken bottom half of the beer bottle and intended to piece it back together and dust it for prints. After he dropped off the jackets, Jackson rushed back to the department. In the conference room, he checked the monitors to see how the twins were doing. Jacob had his head on the table and seemed to be napping, but Henry paced the other room, talking to himself. A sandwich lay on the table, half eaten. They weren’t hurting themselves or making any noise, and that was all he cared about for now.

  Jackson stopped at his desk, opened a Word document, and started a file of case notes. But that was all he had time for. The task force meeting was about to start.

  As he hurried toward the conference room, his phone rang. He glanced at the ID: Kera. If he took it, he would be late to the task force meeting. If he ignored her, he would feel guilty. She was taking care of Benjie for him, so he owed her the consideration. The toddlers could be exhausting. He knew from taking his own solo shifts.

  “Hi, Kera. Is everything all right?”

  “More or less. Benjie’s having a bad day and wants to talk to you. You’re usually with him on weekends, and I think he’s worried you’re not coming back.”

  “Put him on, but it has to be quick. I have a task force meeting starting now.” He wondered how long it would take Benjie to forget the trauma of his mother’s death and trust Jackson not to disappear on him too.

  “Daddy?”

  “Hey, Benjie. Are you having fun with Micah?”

  “Are you coming back?” Straight to the heart.

  “Of course. But I have to work all day. I’ll call you later though.”

  “Okay. Read a bedtime story later too.”

  Another stab of guilt. He might not make it home that early. Homicide cases required nearly round-the-clock focus for the first few days. “Kera can read to you.”

  “No, you have to.”

  “I’ll call before bedtime, I promise. I have to go.” He hung up, realizing he should have talked to Kera again.

  “You’re going soft, old man.” Evans walked up and smacked his shoulder. “And you’re late. Come on.”

  They crossed the open space outside their cubes and entered the conference room. Lammers and Quince were already seated. Where was Schak?

  “I assigned Schak to another case,” Lammers reminded him, as if reading his thoughts.

  “What does he have?” Jackson took a seat near the whiteboard on the wall.

  “Sexual assault, blackmail, and suicide. A young female victim.”

  A squeeze in his guts. “How tragic.” Thank goodness he hadn’t been given that one. Dead young women unnerved him because they made him think of his daughter. “But shouldn’t Schak be on leave?”

  Lammers gave him a furrowed brow. “Would you stay home under the circumstances?”

  “Good point.” He opened his notebook, dismayed at the lack of detail. “Let’s get started.”

  Evans stood. “I’ll take the board.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need it,” Lammers said. She wore a beige pantsuit that blended with the wall behind her and seemed less intimidating than usual. “What did you get out of the twins?”

  “Nothing solid, but I took their jackets and prints to the lab. None of the technicians usually work Sunday, so we may not get confirmation until Monday.”

  Lammers made a disgusted noise. “That’s unacceptable for a fellow officer. I�
��ll make a call. Are the suspects still in custody?”

  “Yes.” Jackson paused while Evans wrote the two names on the board. “But I don’t know how long we can hold them here. They need mental health supervision.”

  Lammers raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

  “Henry started shrieking when I showed him the bloody weapon. Then his twin got worked up too. They don’t like to be separated.”

  “Too bad,” Lammers said. “A reaction to a bloody weapon is a classic sign of guilt.”

  “Maybe one of the shelters will take them,” Evans offered. “With an officer keeping watch, of course.”

  “We’d have to pull someone off the search for bloody clothes,” Lammers said. “So let’s wait and see how they do.”

  Jackson spoke to Evans and gestured at the board. “Henry was the one in the green jacket and has a small mole on his neck.” As Evans made notes, he turned to Quince. “What else did we get from all the interviews out there today?”

  “Not much.” Quince glanced at his notes. “Everyone saw Thompson passing out blankets, but afterward, they went back to the camp to be near the fire. One man, who came late, said he saw Thompson sitting in his truck. He doesn’t know what time it was, but he says it had been dark for a while.”

  That was odd. “So he was there after he handed out blankets.”

  “That’s what it seems like. But the guy is not exactly a reliable witness.”

  “Was he sober when you interviewed him?”

  “I don’t think he’s ever sober.”

  It didn’t matter, Jackson told himself. They had the twins in custody. “Did we get anything from the search party?”

  “Not yet,” Lammers said. “But we’ll get a canine unit out there tomorrow.”

  “We still need a door-to-door sweep. I know there are only businesses in that area, but some of those shops may serve as apartments too, and we have to talk to every possible witness. I need you and Evans to start after our dinner break.”

  Quince started to say something, then stopped and started over. “I have something I have to do later, but I’ll get out there for a while.”