Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 6

  Mr. Grayson sipped his coffee with shaky hands, then continued. “I looked up and didn’t see anything so I went back to pulling weeds. Then I heard the sound again. I glanced across the street, but there was no one around and nothing happening that I could see. I went inside to use the bathroom. When I came out, I heard a car drive away.”

  Jackson pressed his teeth together and waited him out. He knew there was more to the story.

  “I was curious so I went outside and looked toward 25th Avenue. I saw the blue sedan at the corner, turning left. I went back to pulling weeds. About twenty minutes later, a cop car came screaming down the street and all hell broke loose.”

  Jackson remembered the anonymous call. “Did either of you call the police and report seeing Hector Vargas, the handyman, leaving their house?”

  “No.” Mrs. Grayson spoke, but they both shook their heads.

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “No.”

  Jackson looked at the old man. “Was Hector Vargas still over there working when you first saw the blue sedan?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you tell the detectives about the car?”

  “Nobody ever asked me. The police picked up the handyman an hour later and he had your parents’ cash box. Everyone assumed he did it. I never gave the sedan another thought…until now.”

  Jackson fought to hide his disgust. The detectives assigned to the case hadn’t even questioned the neighbors. They’d beaten a confession out of a thief instead. Jackson wondered how much Vargas’ ethnicity had sealed his fate.

  Mrs. Grayson echoed his thoughts. “I suppose his being a Mexican worked against him.” She shook her head. “I’d like to think that couldn’t happen now.”

  The department had become more politically correct in the last decade, but Jackson knew racial profiling still happened. He’d been guilty of it too in subtle ways. Everyone looked outside their own cultures and beliefs for someone to blame.

  Yet what Santori and Bekker had done went way beyond profiling. They had not only failed to do their jobs, they’d abused a suspect and let the man who killed his parents get away.

  Chapter 7

  After questioning the Graysons, Jackson knocked on the door of the other homes in the neighborhood. He found one young college student at home, but she had only been in the house for a year. Derrick was still not answering the door or his phone.

  Jackson checked his watch and realized the morning was gone. He drove the mile home, hoping to have lunch with his daughter. He strolled up the sidewalk, savoring the pleasure of his well-kept yard. In the house, he called out to Katie, then remembered she was back in school. Disappointed not to see her, Jackson made a tuna sandwich and a glass of iced coffee from the cold stuff left in the pot. He kept hoping his brother would call back, so he could talk to him in person while he was still in the neighborhood. Jackson laughed at his own twisted thought process. Derrick had lived only a mile away for the last eleven years and he hadn’t seen him or spoken to him. Why should convenience be a consideration now?

  He ate his lunch at the table, skimming though the City section and subconsciously looking for Sophie Speranza’s byline. He liked to keep tabs on the reporter’s stories because she often wrote about his cases, whether he approved or not.

  He called Katie as he left the house, knowing she wouldn’t pick up at school, and left her a message. “I missed having lunch with you today. I hope high school is treating you well so far. See you for dinner.” At fifteen, his daughter was spending less time at home and rarely suggested they do things together anymore. Jackson was holding on as tightly as he could without actually putting a GPS device under her skin. He started to call her again to suggest they take the trike out that weekend, then wondered if he would end up working instead. He tended to get like that with homicide cases—and this one involved his parents.

  As he drove back to the department, he decided it was time to tell Lammers about his activities. If she didn’t give him official time to work the case, he would ask to take vacation days and work it on his own time.

  Sergeant Lammers waved him into her office. As she hung up the phone, she stood and hollered, “Come in and tell me what’s going on.” She meant to sound friendly, but her voice had a built-in bullhorn.

  Jackson sat, hoping she would too. He grabbed his cell and muted it. Lammers was known for becoming agitated by the sound of anyone’s phone but hers. “I wrapped up the incident near campus. As I suspected, the supposed body was a young homeless addict passed out on the laundry room floor. I spoke with him in person. There’s no case.”

  “Great use of our time. Love the U of O students.” Lammers produced a nasty smile. “I don’t have anything new for you, but with this heat, just give it a few hours.”

  “I have an old case I want to reopen.” Jackson braced himself.

  “What case and why?”

  “The murders of Clark and Evelyn Jackson in 2000. The man who was convicted says he didn’t do it. He says he was abused and coerced into a confession.”

  Lammers scowled. “Why now? Why do you believe this crap?”

  “He’s dying and he wanted me to know that the real killer is still out there.” Jackson set his recorder on the desk. “You should listen to his statement. He’s convincing.”

  “No.” She rapped the desk with an open hand. “This is personal for you. I get that. But you’re saying that detectives here in this department abused their authority. Do you know what a shitstorm this is for me?”

  “Do you know what a shitstorm this is for me?” Jackson matched her volume. “Not only did Bekker and Santori abuse a suspect, including burning him with a cigarette, they didn’t bother to investigate anyone else.”

  “Bekker and Santori?” She arched her eyebrows, but not in a completely surprised way. “Who does he say burned him?”

  “Bekker.”

  “How do you know they didn’t investigate anyone else?”

  “I read the case file. I talked to the people who lived across the street from the victims.” Jackson was careful not to make it too personal. “Mr. Grayson saw a blue sedan parked outside the house before the murders. He heard the shots but didn’t realize they were shots. Then he saw the sedan drive away a few minutes later, but no one ever questioned him at the time.”

  “Oh crap.” Lammers pushed her hands through her cropped hair. He’d never seen her do that before. After a long silence, she said, “We have two issues here. The abuse of a suspect needs to involve internal affairs, so I’ll handle that. We can reopen the homicide case but eventually we’ll need the support of the DA. Both incidents are eleven years old, and I don’t have much hope that either one will be resolved.”

  “You know I have to try and find my parents’ killer.”

  “Yes. I understand that. I’ll give you two weeks.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t discuss the abuse claim with anyone in the department. Just say new evidence has come up.”

  Jackson sympathized. Santori was now an internal investigator, so involving Ben Stricklyn, the other detective in the IA unit, could be tricky. “I’m more interested in finding the killer than I am in punishing the police work that let him get away.”

  “Good. Because Santori is a decent man and I don’t want to see him prosecuted.”

  “What about Bekker?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Between you and me, there’s been talk that Bekker is becoming unstable, so I’ll meet with the chief and see how he wants to handle this.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your support.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I won’t let this old murder case turn into an endless, pointless pursuit. Are we clear?”

  “We are.” Jackson took his cue and stood to leave.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” Lammers said softly.

  “Me too.”

  Jackson returned to his desk and stared at the file with his parents’ name on the label. What the hell had been going on in their lives t
hat would cause someone to kill them? How could he have been so oblivious to it? At the time, he’d had a toddler at home, a stressful patrol job, and a wife who’d started drinking heavily. His plate had been full and his parents seemed so content with their lives. But parents often kept things from their children out of habit, even when their kids were adults. He wondered if his brother Derrick had known what was going on. When they were young kids, his mother had been closer to Derrick because he was her firstborn. When they were teenagers, his father had been closer to Derrick because the two of them shared a passion for watching sports. Jackson had often felt like the odd one out.

  Why hadn’t Derrick returned his call? Jackson placed another call and left another message. He planned to stop by the house again late that afternoon to see if he could catch Derrick or the other neighbors at home. For now he would visit the crime lab and examine the evidence the technicians had collected. He wanted to believe they had done their jobs well, even if the investigators had not.

  It would be easy to drive past the crime lab if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for. The gray-brick structure had no sign, no windows on the first floor, and no distinctive features. Even the entrance was on the side near the parking lot. The lab was also the only building on this section of Garfield Street that wasn’t ancient or dilapidated. The location seemed odd, unless you factored in the dirt-cheap cost of the property.

  Jackson ran his ID under the scanner and waited for the gate to open to the back parking lot. Once inside, he went in search of Jasmine Parker, the best technician in the department. He found the tall, pencil-thin woman in the small lab, processing fingerprints on the down draft. He waited for her to glance over. Her ageless, striking face registered no surprise at seeing him. Jackson thought she would be a killer to play poker with.

  “Hey, Parker. Have you got some time to look at an old case?”

  “Sure. Give me five minutes here. You can wait in my office if you want.”

  Jackson was happy to wait in the lab. He rarely came up here, so we welcomed the chance to look closely at the tools used to process evidence. He’d once watched as Parker ran a metal safe through the superglue dryer, but he usually didn’t have time for anything but a phone call to find out what they’d discovered on a particular case.

  When Parker finished her fingerprints, they walked down the hall to her private office. She took off her white lab coat and released her long black hair from the hairnet. “You said you were working an old case? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my parents’ murders.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. When did they happen?”

  “September 23, 2000.”

  “Why now?”

  Jackson told her about the letter and his trip to the prison. When he mentioned the physical abuse, Parker registered disgust, something he’d never seen on her expressionless face.

  “I didn’t think that kind of thing happened in Eugene.”

  “It can happen anywhere, especially to people who are vulnerable.”

  “What now? Do you want to see the evidence?”

  “I have to.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Downstairs, they entered a locked storage room and Parker flipped on the overhead fluorescents. Rows of metal shelves came into view. They were stuffed with clear plastic bags and white tubs like the kind used to transport mail. Jackson was glad he didn’t have to search alone.

  “I started at the crime lab in February of 2000,” Parker said, heading left and checking the dates on the end of the shelves. “I may have worked the case with a senior technician.”

  Jackson visualized Parker in his parents’ living room, searching his mother’s outer clothing for trace evidence. He hoped she’d been as thorough back then as she was now.

  “Here’s 2000.” Parker turned down the row and headed toward the back wall. As they reached an area marked September, Jackson gave Parker the case number and they both started looking at labels.

  It took twenty minutes to find the right box. Jackson recognized his mother’s floral blouse though the clear plastic. He could almost smell the summery fabric softener she’d used on her clothes. A separate bag held a familiar white sweater. Dark brown stains blotted the collar, making Jackson wince.

  Other than two sets of clothing, the contents were disappointingly sparse for a crime scene with two bodies.

  “Let’s take it upstairs.” Parker grabbed the plastic crate before Jackson could. It occurred to him that she realized how strange and difficult this process was for him. He hoped to get past the emotional reactions and start thinking analytically.

  Upstairs, Parker suggested they use the lab, where they could lay out everything on a large table in the middle of the room. Joe Berloni, a short man with the face and torso of a boxer, was operating the superglue dryer when they entered. He soon came over to check out what they were doing.

  “What case is this?” Joe asked, as Parker unloaded a collection of smaller plastic bags onto the table.

  “Double homicide in 2000,” Jackson said, not wanting to get the gossip train going.

  “New evidence has come up?” Joe was still curious and Jackson didn’t blame him.

  “A new witness came forward so I’m looking at everything.”

  “Let me know if I can help.” Joe picked up a bag with three spent bullets.

  “The ballistics report says these are .22 slugs,” Jackson said. “Anything unusual about them?”

  Joe held the bag close to his face. “Unfortunately, no.”

  If he found a suspect and the suspect owned a gun, they could compare its fired bullets to these, but otherwise, the slugs meant little. Jackson reached for an evidence bag with a strand of hair. It was short and dark blond. Both of his parents had salt-and-pepper hair by the time they were fifty.

  Nothing in the file indicated Vargas’ DNA had been found at the scene. Had this trace evidence been processed or compared to known felons? “I want to run a new DNA analysis on all of the trace evidence, with a priority on this hair,” Jackson said. “While we’re waiting for it to come back, I’d like to check CODIS for a match with the DNA work that was already done. The perpetrator might be in the system now, even if he wasn’t then.”

  “It really isn’t necessary to repeat the DNA analysis,” Parker said. “But I’ll check everything with CODIS again.”

  “The investigators were sloppy because they thought they had the right perp. I’d like to start from scratch and make sure everything is done correctly.”

  Parker blinked. “I can’t ask the state lab to prioritize it, so this could take a week.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Jackson examined the last three evidence bags: a cigarette butt, a small black comb, and photos of muddy shoe prints near the front porch. The cigarette butt had started to degrade but the DNA in the saliva should still be there. Where was the debris from the carpet? He turned to Parker. “Do you remember if you worked this case? A couple in their mid-fifties shot in their living room in South Eugene?”

  Parker nodded. “I rode to the scene with Walters. He was the supervisor then. He collected trace from the bodies while I took fingerprints. After about an hour, the detectives got word that patrol cops had picked up a suspect. They cleared out soon after.” A flash of worry crossed Parker’s face. “Eventually, I heard the victims were the parents of a cop, but I didn’t know you then and I never made the connection until today.”

  “Do you remember anything unusual about the case?”

  “It was one of my first so I had little basis for comparison. Looking back, I now see that the investigators spent very little time in the house.”

  Jackson realized he was making her uncomfortable. “I’m glad to have you working the case with me now.”

  “I’ll go through our files and find every test and analysis we conducted at the time.”

  “Thanks, Parker. If you think of anything specific from your own memory, I’d like to h
ear about it right away.” Jackson started loading the evidence bags back into the crate. He hadn’t expected to discover much, but he was a visual person and needed to see things for himself.

  As he headed out, Parker called after him, “There was something unusual. Your moth–” She stopped and corrected herself. “The female victim had a hundred-dollar bill under her body. I heard the ME make a joke about it. When the handyman was caught with the cash box, I assumed the bill had been dropped in the struggle.” Parker stepped toward him. “But if Vargas left before your parents came home, how did the money get under her body?”

  “And why isn’t that bill in the evidence crate?”

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday, September 7, 5:55 a.m.

  Evans woke before her alarm went off, as she did every work morning, and felt groggy from not sleeping well. The recurring nightmare she’d had through her early twenties had come back with a vengeance. She’d have to buy melatonin on the way home tonight and see if it helped. Seven years had passed since she’d had the rape dream. Goddamn Gary Bekker.

  After brewing a tall cup of Italian roast, she sat down at her computer to read the news. Her browser opened to her favorite sites and she skimmed through, taking in the main points of five or so articles while she drank her coffee. Evans checked her email, disappointed she hadn’t heard back from Mason. She’d met him at the climbing gym last week and they’d had coffee afterward and exchanged emails. She’d hoped they would hook up. Celibacy was making her cranky.

  At 6:45, she changed into workout clothes, grabbed her iPod, and headed for the spare bedroom. Cranking up some techno music, she began a vigorous kickboxing workout, followed by forty pushups and an intense round of Aikido practice. She couldn’t alter the fact that she was five-five and female, but she refused to feel weak and she would never let herself be victimized again.

  Two years before, she’d padded the floors and walls with thick mats so she could take falls and practice flying kicks. At the time, she’d been dating a guy who liked to spar and they’d spent a lot of time in the workout room…and the bedroom. Their relationship had been intensely physical. After Zack tore a hamstring during a particularly robust round of sex, they couldn’t spar or screw for a while and she realized they had nothing important in common. He seemed almost relieved when she broke it off.