Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Read online

  He heard an officer following but didn’t look back. At the top of the stairs, the door into the apartment was shut. He reached for the knob, knowing it would be locked. It was. The two-foot-wide landing between the top step and the entry didn’t give him much room to maneuver. Kicking doors open wasn’t easy even with a full strike range.

  The officer behind him said, “Let me use my flashlight.”

  Jackson turned sideways, and they switched places in the tight space. The beat cop was older and heavier, and Jackson finally remembered his name.

  Officer Sanford detached a foot-long black flashlight from his belt and brought it down on the doorknob with both hands. A crack appeared in the wood above the knob. Sanford took a second swing and knocked the handle partway out of the door. The third blow broke the latch, and the door moved a little. Sanford brought up a foot and smashed it open.

  They searched the small, tidy apartment, but Kazmir wasn’t present. A door led out of the dining area to a small back landing and a set of metal steps heading down. Under a cover of clouds, Jackson scanned the area, looking down at the parking lot. He spotted Kazmir in the alley a block over. Sanford did too and radioed his location. It was only a matter of time before they picked up the suspect. Or so he hoped. But he couldn’t wait around to find out. There was too much else to be done in the first twenty-four hours of a homicide investigation.

  On the way to the department, Jackson finally listened to all his messages. Evans had made several unusual discoveries.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wednesday, December 2, 1:07 p.m.

  Sophie Speranza stood and stretched, fighting the midafternoon slump. The news brief she was writing about real estate fraud was only marginally interesting, and she was still waiting for callbacks before she could start writing about the hit-and-run that had happened late last night on Danebo Avenue. Her desk phone rang, startling her. Almost everybody contacted her on her cell now.

  “This is Sophie.”

  “It’s Earl Daley. Have you heard about the shooting on River Loop 2?”

  Her pulse quickened, and she scrambled to find a pen on her messy desk. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Two people were shot at a pot farm out in Santa Clara. I heard it over the sheriff’s radio. They sent out a deputy, but only as a backup.”

  Good. That meant the Eugene Police Department was handling the case. “When did it happen?”

  “This morning sometime.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One of the victims was taken to the hospital, and the body wagon showed up later for the other one. That’s all I know.”

  “You said River Loop 2. Do you have an address?”

  “No, but if it’s not in the sheriff’s jurisdiction, it has to be close in.”

  Not necessarily. Scattered pockets of Santa Clara were part of the city and therefore EPD responsibility, but they extended throughout the subdivisions halfway to Junction City. “Thanks, Earl. I owe you.” She would send the old guy some basketball tickets or maybe a gift certificate for a steak dinner. He was one of the few locals still monitoring radio frequencies. A few years earlier, the EPD had started scrambling its radio communications so citizens—including criminals—couldn’t listen in. Since Sophie was a reporter who covered courts and crime, that had made her job harder, but she’d finally developed relationships with sources within the department who would give her basic information on a daily basis.

  Sophie called Brian Edward, the paper’s crime photographer, and left a message. After grabbing her purse and jacket, she dug out the big camera in case Brian was busy and didn’t show. She hurried out of her workspace without bothering to turn off her computer.

  “Hey, that’s sounds like a live one,” her cube neighbor called out.

  Sophie paused and turned back to be friendly. “A double shooting, with one survivor.”

  “Another murder?” The middle-aged editor cringed. “This town is getting crazy.”

  “A record year for homicides.” Sophie was eager to get moving.

  “By the way, I love that red jacket,” the editor said. “Most redheads never wear red, but you pull it off.”

  “Thanks. I’ve gotta run.” She strode down the stairs, wondering if the black knee-high boots were overkill. She’d started wearing them after watching a few seasons of The Good Wife inspired by the role of the investigator. She related to Kalinda and had a lot in common with her, including bisexuality and physical size. But where the actress was a dark beauty, Sophie was all ginger and freckles.

  As she trotted across the parking lot, she said her daily gratitude for still having a journalism job in this weird little city she’d grown to love. Hundreds of others at the paper had been laid off, and she’d almost been pushed out of her crime beat recently to make room for a fresh-out-of-college intern who would have cost half her salary and benefits. But she’d helped the detectives catch a sexual predator, and the police department had supported her by refusing to work with anyone else on the newspaper staff. Her boss had backed down and let her continue covering the stories she excelled at. No one at the paper took their job for granted though. Every day, they braced themselves for the announcement that it would be their last.

  She climbed into her funky Scion and drove toward River Road, pushing the speed limit. With any luck, detectives or technicians would still be at the scene. Not that anyone would answer her questions today, but she might get decent photos or a statement from a neighbor. Her body hummed with excitement. She rarely got to see crime scenes while they were still active. Jasmine would probably be there, but Sophie would stay away from her. No one in the Public Safety Department knew they were dating, and they had to keep it that way. For now.

  After passing Wilkes Drive, she drove slowly, watching for the River Loop 2 sign. She’d been in Eugene only eight years and still didn’t know the Santa Clara area well. She’d moved here from New Mexico to attend the University of Oregon, then landed a job at the newspaper. She was still in limbo about whether she would stay in Oregon once the paper went out of business. She wasn’t ready to give up her career, so she sent out résumés regularly. Maybe it was time to get back to work on the nonfiction book she was writing about media coverage of LGBT issues.

  There it was. Sophie made a sudden right, grateful no one was directly behind her. The road curved in a series of gentle sweeps, then straightened out, and the houses changed, becoming older and more rural. Within a mile, she spotted a cluster of police cars, dark sedans, and white vans. But no big mobile-crime-lab bus. That surprised her. But considering the location, there probably weren’t any witnesses to question or fingerprint. She pulled up behind a detective’s car and climbed out. She walked along the side of the road, passing a barrier that directed traffic into a single outer lane that had been erected to keep cars from hitting the law-enforcement personnel as they did their jobs. When she was close to the driveway where two officers stood at the edge, she stopped and waved at them.

  After setting her camera to zoom, she snapped a dozen shots of the house and the law-enforcement vehicles. Her tall, gorgeous girlfriend—with her back to the camera as she dusted the front door for fingerprints—would be in most of the photos. From this angle, Sophie could see through the fruit trees to the back of the property, where a second building stretched out behind the white farmhouse. The pot nursery? A man in black stepped out of the door. The medical examiner. He wouldn’t have been inside unless a dead body was in there. So the two people had been shot in the grow room. Had the perp also stolen the harvest? Maybe there had been more than one assailant. Sophie snapped photos, knowing they wouldn’t be good enough to print.

  A female officer approached her on the road. “Miss, you need to clear out.” In her blue uniform with her hair pulled back tight, she was barely recognizable as a woman. Only her voice was feminine. “This is an active crime scene.”

  Active? A little rush of adrenaline. “You mean the shooter is still in the house?”
/>   The cop looked surprised. “There’s no public-safety issue, but you still need to leave.”

  “I’m Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. I have a right to be here and report what I see. But if you’ll answer a few questions, I’m happy to move along.”

  The officer brought her hands to her hips. “I’m not authorized to talk to the media.”

  “Who is? Which detective is running the case?”

  “Jackson, but please contact our communications officer.” The cop stepped toward her, a show of power.

  Sophie gave her a charming smile. “At least tell me when it happened. There’s no harm in that.”

  “Early this morning. Bye.”

  It was something. “Thanks.” Sophie turned and headed back to her car. Jasmine would give her another detail or two that evening, and she would visit the second victim in the hospital—if he or she survived.

  Sophie made a U-turn in the road and started back. As she neared the next house down the road, a woman climbed out of a minivan in the driveway. The neighbor stood, staring up the road at the crime scene. Sophie braked and pulled in behind her, hoping to chat her up for background on the pot growers. Maybe even a quote she could use.

  She climbed out of her car, and the woman called out, “Who are you?” Taller than her, but older, with thin brown hair, and wearing a matching purple skirt and jacket.

  Her second-favorite color. Sophie introduced herself, and the woman mumbled, “Oh right. I’ve seen your byline.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Alexa Tattriona. Are you here about the incident down the street?”

  “Yes. Did you know your neighbors?”

  “Not really. I’ve only been here two years, and I just saw that one guy working in the yard sometimes.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Josh Stalling.”

  Sophie pulled out her yellow note tablet and jotted it down. “The building behind the house looks new. Do you know when they constructed it?”

  “In the spring—April, I think. It just kind of went up all at once.”

  “Were you aware of the pot-growing operation?”

  “Oh yeah. We could smell it sometimes, but fortunately the wind usually blows in the other direction. Mr. Paulson got the worst of it.”

  The social conflicts for pot growers in urban settings were just now starting to play out. It would be an ongoing story, but probably not one she would be assigned. Unless it led to a shooting.

  Alexa continued. “He asked me to join him in a lawsuit against them, but I said no.”

  Potentially juicy! She was talking to the wrong neighbor. “What’s Mr. Paulson’s first name?”

  “Clark.” Alexa’s eyes widened, and she leaned toward Sophie. “What happened over there? Did Mr. Paulson shoot Josh?”

  A gold mine. Sophie scribbled abbreviated notes as fast as she could. “Two people were shot. Who else lived there?”

  “I’m not sure. I saw a woman there a few times recently, but she seemed to come and go.”

  “Why did you ask if Paulson shot Josh? Did he threaten him?”

  The neighbor cringed. “Yeah, but I didn’t take it seriously at the time. Good grief! Is Josh dead?”

  “I don’t know.” Sophie realized she hadn’t asked the most important questions yet. “Did you hear shots this morning?”

  Alexa shook her head. “I pretty much took a shower and ran out of the house to get to work on time.”

  “Did you see anything unusual? Any cars parked over there that you didn’t recognize?”

  “You know—” Alexa rubbed her chin. “I did see a car pulling out of the driveway as I looked up the road when I was leaving. And it wasn’t one I’d seen before. Josh drives a little red truck, and I sometimes see a white Honda. But this was a bigger car. And dark gray.”

  Sophie kept scribbling, her excitement growing. She wished she’d asked Alexa if she could record their conversation. “What time was that?”

  “About ten after seven. I was running late.”

  “Did you see who was driving?”

  Alexa snorted. “No. Too far away and too early.” Her expression abruptly turned serious. “Do you think it was the shooter?”

  “Could be. What does Mr. Paulson drive?”

  “A black truck, so it wasn’t him.”

  “And you’d never seen the car there before?”

  “I don’t think so. But I don’t drive that direction often. Only on my way to the orchard in the summer to buy produce.” Alexa’s focus shifted, and she started searching in her purse for her phone. “I have to get going,” she said. “I have just enough time to grab something to eat and get to my yoga class. Nice talking to you.” The neighbor started toward the house.

  “Can I quote you?” Sophie called after her.

  She turned back, alarmed. “Please don’t. I don’t want the person in the gray car to know I saw him.”

  Was the woman right to be worried? “I meant about Mr. Paulson’s lawsuit.”

  “Not that either. I thought you just wanted background stuff.”

  “I did. I’ll keep your name out of the story. Thanks.” Sophie handed her a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  Alexa walked into her house, and Sophie returned to her car. If she hurried back to her desk, she could crank out a five-hundred-word news story for the morning paper. She had enough to go on. Tomorrow she would talk to Mr. Paulson and the other homeowners along this stretch of road and see what else she could dig up. Jackson and his task force had probably beat her to it, but at least she wouldn’t have to beg him for information. Yet.

  On the drive, she called Jasmine to leave her a message that she would be working late. As the phone rang, Sophie laughed. Her girlfriend would be working late too, processing fingerprints and cataloging evidence. Jasmine surprised her by answering. “Hey, make it fast. I’m at a crime scene but on a quick break.”

  “I know. I was just there taking pictures from the road.”

  “I can’t tell you anything.” Jasmine sounded irritated.

  “I know. I just wanted to tell you I’d be working late.”

  A long pause. “Where did you get your information?”

  “A source who monitors the sheriff’s radio, plus a neighbor.”

  “You’ve been busy. Call Jackson tomorrow if you want more details.”

  “Just tell me the gender of the other person who was shot. I know the homeowner is Josh Stalling.”

  “Nice try, girl.”

  Jasmine had never called her “girl” before. She was too uptight for that. “Thanks. Will I see you later tonight?”

  “No. It’ll be too late, and I have to be back to the lab early. Gotta go.” She abruptly hung up.

  Sophie didn’t take it personally. Jasmine was still unnerved by their relationship. Until they’d met, her girlfriend hadn’t realized—or admitted to herself—that she was gay. So having a girlfriend was something she couldn’t talk to anyone about. Since Jaz was an employee of the Public Safety Department, her dating a reporter was even more taboo. Another reason Sophie was considering a move to San Francisco or Seattle, if she was offered a journalism job. She loved Jasmine, but how could she put their relationship ahead of her career if her partner wasn’t willing to acknowledge it?

  Later, at her desk, she wolfed down the taco salad she’d bought from a cart vendor, then wrote her lead: A man and a woman were shot early yesterday morning in a marijuana nursery on River Loop 2. Josh Stalling, the homeowner, is believed to be dead, and a female companion was taken to North McKenzie Hospital.

  She still had to confirm that Stalling was the property owner and check on the woman’s condition. Sophie cranked out a few paragraphs about the dispute over the smell in the neighborhood, then saved her file. Before she could do more research, she had to let the night editor know she had late copy coming in. As she stood, her cell phone rang. “This is Sophie.”

  “Hi again. This is Alexa. I just remembered that I
did see that gray car yesterday too, at the gas station on the corner. I was on my way home from work. At least, I think it was the same car.”

  Had the killer cased the marijuana nursery, watching for an ideal time to attack?

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, December 2, 2:15 p.m.

  Evans found the shooting victim’s room three doors down from Sergeant Lammers’. The same nurse she’d encountered earlier was injecting something into an IV bag. The sleeping patient didn’t respond when she came in.

  “Me again.” Evans pulled out a fingerprint kit and held it up. “I need to get the victim’s fingerprints.”

  “That sounds intrusive.” The nurse cocked his head. “And if she’s the victim, why do you need her fingerprints?”

  Why did he care? “Many reasons. Mostly to distinguish her prints from the shooter’s.”

  “Oh.” The information seemed to surprise him.

  Evans grabbed the tray stand next to the bed and set up her inkpad. The nurse watched from the side, clearly done with his tasks, but curious. She hadn’t done this in a while, but it was easy. Most fingerprints were taken at the jail when suspects were booked into custody. Or occasionally at the department when they came in for questioning. This was her first time fingerprinting an unconscious person. She grabbed the woman’s right hand, lifted it to the pad, and slowly rolled each finger in the special black ink. As she moved the victim’s hand to the ten-print card and pressed the index finger down, the woman woke up. The patient jerked her hand away and tried to sit up.

  Shit! Evans glanced at the card. The print might still be okay. But maybe not.

  “What are you doing?” The victim stared at the ink on her hand.

  “Fingerprints. Tell me who you really are, and I’ll help you clean that off instead of trying again.”

  “Kayla Benson.” Her blue eyes were bright, clear, and slightly alarmed. But her hair was bleached and frizzy, and her nails were short, uneven, and had splashes of fuchsia polish from the week before. Her overall appearance didn’t seem to match her clear, focused eyes. “I took a print before you woke up, so I’ll know your real name soon.” If the victim was in the system. “If you lie to me, you’ll look like a suspect. Even if you weren’t the shooter, you could have been working with the perp.”