Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 7

  But would the boy be safe with Amanda’s grandmother if she could take him? Jackson had to shut down his personal emotions and not jump to conclusions. He didn’t even know if the father was really a threat. Maybe the father had custody. But if he’d killed Amanda, that paperwork no longer mattered.

  He needed a name!

  CHAPTER 10

  Jackson texted Kera: Are you at the hospital? What’s the update? While he waited for a response, he took the headphones off Benjie, then talked to the boy as he pushed buttons on the talking toy, which looked like a cross between a cell phone and a mini-computer.

  “G is for gorilla,” Jackson said.

  The boy made a growling gorilla sound.

  So cute. Jackson loved this age. “D is for doggie. I don’t like dogs. Do you?”

  “I like puppies.” Benjie shook his head. “Mommy says no.”

  “Dogs are a lot of work. What is your mom’s name?”

  “Mommy.”

  No help. “D is for dad too.”

  The boy pushed another button and mooed like a cow.

  “Do you have a dad?”

  “No.” Benjie changed the subject. “Do you have puzzles?”

  That surprised him. “No, but we’ll pick up some at the store.”

  “Thank you.” He made a gesture with his hand on his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

  “Let’s get something.”

  While he made a PBJ for the boy, he received a text from Kera: In ICU again this morning. No change. Could use a break from Micah. But I know you have a case.

  How could he refuse her? He had almost two hours before the task force meeting, and he was babysitting anyway. He could spare an hour. He texted back: On my way.

  A moment later, he regretted it. He should be working to find Benjie’s family and Amanda’s killer.

  Kera looked so relieved to see him, his anxiety about not working eased. Her expression quickly changed to puzzlement when she saw Benjie. Jackson let go of the boy’s hand and Benjie grabbed his pant leg. Jackson hugged Kera tightly, then kissed her—guilt, love, and worry poured into the encounter.

  She finally pulled back. “What’s going on? Who’s the little one?”

  “Benjie was hiding at the crime scene yesterday. I haven’t found his family yet.”

  “Why didn’t children’s service take him?”

  “They tried but he was too distressed. He’s quite bonded to me—for now.”

  “I don’t blame him.” A little smile.

  “Anything new on Danette?”

  “They’ve stopped the bleeding in her abdomen, but she’s still unconscious and her blood pressure is low.”

  “Have you called Maggie?” Danette’s mother lived in Corvallis but had little contact with her daughter and grandson.

  “She’s coming this late afternoon, so I’ll be able to go home for a while.”

  “Go take a break. I’ll watch the boys.”

  Jackson picked up Kera’s grandson and said hello.

  Benjie made a distressed sound. Jackson put down Micah and patted the other boy’s head. “Don’t worry. We’re still a team.” He introduced the kids to each other.

  “I like this version of you.” Kera grinned and gestured with a circle of inclusion. “Good luck.” She headed for the elevator.

  He took a deep breath. How had he ended up here, taking care of two little boys? It was odd, yet strangely satisfying. Time to find the playroom on the children’s ward.

  Later at the department, he ordered pizza for the task force, then updated his case file. He glanced at Benjie, who sat on the floor, playing with an old recorder and laughing at the sound of his own voice. Before that, the boy had been working a puzzle with surprising skill. Would Benjie think the pizza was junk food and not eat it? Jackson felt like a bad influence. It didn’t matter. He would drive to Drain this afternoon and not leave the grandmother’s house until she agreed to take the boy or gave him the name of a family member who would. Getting attached to Benjie was a bad idea.

  Footsteps thundered nearby and Jackson spun in his chair.

  “What the hell?” Sergeant Lammers strode up, hands on her ample hips, staring at the boy.

  “He was hiding at the crime scene yesterday, and I’m trying to find his family.” Jackson stood too, trying to feel more . . . more what? Masculine?

  “Mommy my family.” The boy grabbed his pant leg. “And Jackson.”

  “Oh brother.” Lammers rolled her eyes. “You need to call Family Services.”

  “That didn’t work out.”

  She glared for a long moment. “What’s the update on your case?”

  Jackson started to tell her, then remembered the boy. He grabbed the headphones and put them on Benjie again. The boy grinned. “Warm ears.”

  He turned back to Lammers. “The victim’s ID says Amanda Carter, but we believe it’s phony. I located her place of employment and her grandmother, and I’ll drive to Drain this afternoon to question her in person.”

  “Leave the boy with her.”

  Jackson bristled. What the hell did she care? “That’s the plan.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “The teenager next door called in the body, and we’re looking closely at him.” He wouldn’t mention the threatening note and the potential custody issue until he knew more. “We have a task force meeting in a few minutes.”

  “Keep me posted.” The boss moved next door to Evans’ office.

  He remembered Evans wasn’t on his team anymore and wouldn’t be at the meeting. That was too bad. She always had a fresh insight. He finished typing up his case notes and printed copies for Schak and Quince. Grabbing Benjie’s hand, he headed for the conference room.

  Schak arrived early, stood in the doorway, and raised an eyebrow. Jackson didn’t know if he was asking about lunch or the little kid who was pushing around one of the chairs. “Yes, I ordered pizza. And Benjie is hanging out with me until I find his family.”

  “Whatever works for you.” Schak lumbered around the table. “I’ll take the board since Evans won’t be here.”

  Quince came in, did a double take at Benjie, then smiled. “Your girlfriend’s grandson?”

  “No.” Jackson explained—hopefully for the last time—then asked Benjie to leave the chair alone and try another one of his new puzzles. “I have to put the ear warmers back on for a while.”

  “Mommy can’t hear either.”

  Poor kid! He ached for the boy but didn’t know what to say. “She misses you too.” He turned back to the group, feeling awkward. “Let’s make this quick.” He passed out his case notes. “Amanda Carter, if that’s her name, worked for Fresh Horizons In-Home Care. She listed Lucille Caiden as her emergency contact, so I called her this morning. Lucille admitted being Amanda’s grandmother but wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

  “That’s weird,” Quince said.

  “She claims she promised to keep Amanda’s secret.” Jackson slipped the folded paper out of its plastic evidence pouch. “I also found a threatening note in Amanda’s wallet. No signature, but her grandmother sounded scared. I think they were hiding from the boy’s father. But it’s just a guess.” He passed the note to Schak, who copied it to the board in handwriting that was nearly unreadable.

  “Probably a custody issue,” Schak said. “It may explain why she didn’t have a birth certificate for the boy.”

  “I hate custody issues,” Quince added.

  “Me too.” Jackson checked his case file for their assignments, then looked at Quince. “Did you talk to the teenager next door again?”

  “I tried, but Dylan wasn’t home. When I told his mother about the bloody knife, she looked worried and stopped talking to me.”

  Jackson had an ugly thought. “Look at reports in the neighborhood and see if there are inciden
ts of animal abuse. Or if Dylan’s name comes up in complaints.”

  A knock at the door, then a desk officer opened it. “Dan and Julie Beckett are here to see Schak.”

  The homeowners. About time.

  A mismatched older couple tentatively stepped in. He was seventy and scowling, and she was fifty, plump, and pleasant.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jackson said. “Have a seat, please. We won’t take much of your time.”

  The man stayed standing, his wife a step behind him. Dan Beckett demanded, “I want to know who was in the house! It hasn’t been rented since February.”

  That answered the basic question. Still, Jackson tried to clarify. “You don’t have a rental contract with anyone right now?”

  “No.” The man crossed his arms. “Whoever was there was trespassing. Damn squatters.”

  Well, hell. Jackson handed him a close-up photo of Amanda’s dead face. “Do you know this woman?”

  “No.”

  His wife peeked over the man’s shoulder, then quickly looked away. “I’ve never seen her.”

  “Who has keys to the rental?” Jackson glanced at the boy to see if he was looking at the Becketts or showed any recognition. Benjie was focused on a puzzle and whispering to himself about it.

  “No one,” Mr. Beckett said. “We don’t have a manager for the place. In fact, we’ve mostly given up on it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A moment of silence, then Mrs. Beckett blurted out, “We stopped making mortgage payments months ago. Without a renter, we couldn’t afford to.”

  A zombie house. Abandoned by the owners but unclaimed or processed by the bank. They were all over the country. Surprised by the development, Jackson struggled to think of what else to ask.

  Schak tapped the board, then looked at the Becketts. “Do you know anyone who owns a blue pickup?”

  “Why?” Julie Beckett asked.

  “Because someone saw a small light-blue truck in front of the house recently.”

  “Our son used to do maintenance for us, but he has a big, dark-blue F250.”

  “He has a key?” Jackson again tried to clarify.

  Dan Beckett took over. “Yes, I’d forgotten that. But he had no reason to be there now, and he damn well didn’t let anyone stay without signing a rental contract.”

  “Could Amanda be a friend of his?”

  A deeper scowl. “Our son’s married, a churchgoing family man.” Mr. Beckett shook his head. “They probably broke in. The window in the laundry room doesn’t latch well.”

  “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Charles Beckett, but you leave him alone. This has nothing to do with him.”

  The desk officer was back with thin, flat boxes. “Your pizza is here.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson started to ask the Becketts another question, but they were already leaving.

  He let them go. “We need more information about the little blue truck, but first, let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Wednesday, September 4, 11:50 a.m.

  Evans took the elevator to the basement of the old hospital. Her first autopsy. The thought made her stomach flutter. A lot of newbies passed out or got sick, but she was determined to be stoic.

  She pushed into the room and gave it a quick once-over: Smaller than she’d imagined, with lots of stainless steel. Grayson’s body lay on a wide, raised table, but she wasn’t ready to look at it.

  The pathologist glanced up from the back counter, startled. “You’re early. What a pleasant surprise. I’m Rudolph Konrad.” His round, thick face didn’t match his graying hair but he had a nice smile.

  “Detective Lara Evans.” She looked around for protective gear and saw a shelf with open boxes of gloves and facemasks. “Should I suit up or is it too soon?”

  “We’re still waiting for Gunderson and an assistant DA. I don’t know who this dead young man is, but the district attorney says there’s no room for error.” The pathologist’s smile disappeared. “I don’t make mistakes.”

  “Bullshit.” Gunderson strode into the room. “We all do. You’re just better at explaining yours.” The medical examiner grabbed two paper gowns and handed one to her. “This is your first, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Evans tied the gown and pulled on a facemask, feeling like she was about to operate on someone. Watching the pathologist make the big cut in the corpse’s chest would be the hardest part. Once he was open, she’d be all right.

  Five minutes later, Jim Trang rushed in and apologized for being late. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be here until I got the call this morning.” His briefcase looked out of place in the room with all the white paper gowns and stainless steel. As he suited up, Trang said, “The DA wants Logan Grayson’s toxicology reports prioritized.”

  Gunderson snorted. “Then he’ll have to call the state lab. I sent them out this morning and that’s all I can do.”

  “Let’s get started,” the pathologist said, moving to one side of the body, and the medical examiner took his place on the other. The two men had probably done a hundred autopsies together. Gunderson, the ME, attended crime scenes, took detailed photos, cleaned the body, and extracted fluid samples. Konrad, the pathologist, conducted the postmortem examination and determined the cause of death. At least that was her understanding.

  Following Jackson’s advice, she put a piece of mint gum in her mouth and focused her eyes on the dead man’s feet. So far the room reeked mostly of powerful antiseptic, but she knew the body smell could get intense when they cut him open.

  First, Konrad began an inch-by-inch search of the skin, starting at the toes. He made general comments for the recording, but most were irrelevant to her investigation. Evans found herself staring at the man’s incredible physique and muscle structure. He could have passed the damn SWAT test without even trying. A bruise on his chest, about the size of a fist, blended with his mixed-race skin. Had someone struck him? She really wanted to examine his face and head, but the pathologist hadn’t reached that point, and she didn’t know if she would be allowed to get that close.

  After a few minutes, Konrad picked up one of the corpse’s hands. “Bruising on his knuckles indicates an altercation, but the yellowish color means it likely happened several days ago.”

  Evans remembered the outburst by Lamar Owens, Grayson’s teammate. Maybe Grayson had struck a wall too. But walls didn’t punch back in the chest. Who had he fought with?

  “Did you take samples from under the nails?” Konrad asked.

  “Always.” Gunderson’s tone held the same attitude they saw at crime scenes.

  For a long moment, the pathologist stared at the man’s right knee, then examined it more closely with a magnifier. “I believe he had an arthroscopic knee surgery in the last few years.”

  “He injured his MCL last year and nearly missed the bowl game,” Gunderson said. “Don’t you people follow the Ducks?”

  Konrad moved on without comment. “A bruise on his chest near the right nipple.” The pathologist measured the mark, noted the coloring, then added, “This bruise was likely incurred several days before his death, perhaps in the same altercation where he suffered the bruise to his knuckles.”

  The fistfight now seemed important. “Could the fight have set off a chain of events in his body that led to his death?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. We’ll know more when we get inside.” Konrad didn’t even look up. He shifted his gaze to a new area. “There’s a tattoo of the ace of spades on his right shoulder.”

  Was it supposed to be lucky? Evans started to feel restless and they hadn’t even turned him over.

  Konrad leaned in and examined the tattoo.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. A pin prick maybe.”

  “Like a needle injection?”

&
nbsp; “No. Too small. It may be nothing.” He photographed the spot and moved on.

  Finally, the pathologist reached Grayson’s head. “A significant amount of dried blood, all of it stemming from the nose. But no swelling to indicate a blow there.” The pathologist made an unexpected cut into a nostril, drawing a tiny trickle of blood.

  “The nasal cartilage shows minor damage, most likely from snorting narcotics.” Konrad extracted a tissue sample and placed it on a glass slide to examine later under a microscope.

  “Cocaine?” Evans asked.

  Gunderson spoke up. “Or meth. Or oxycontin. Drugs users will snort just about anything.”

  The assistant district attorney cleared his throat. “Speculation is unnecessary, and this information cannot reach the media. The national news teams are in town and pressuring everyone. This is too explosive.”

  They all turned to stare at him, and Gunderson said, “We don’t talk to the press.”

  “I know,” Trang answered. “But you can’t tell your wives or coworkers either, or it will leak. The football team is already hurt by Logan Grayson’s death.”

  Evans was surprised the DA’s office cared so much. Was this player’s drug use just the tip of an iceberg? Or was it simply about keeping the money flowing in?

  “I’d like to continue my examination.” Konrad’s tone was so dry it sucked the moisture out of the room. The pathologist began to search the man’s scalp, aided by the shortness of Grayson’s curly brown hair. “An abrasion on the left side of the neurocranium, two inches above the temple. Slight swelling and discoloration, but no lacerations and no blood.”

  A fist to his head too? “What caused it?”

  “Either someone shoved his head into a wall, or his head struck something when he fell. The body was found on the floor, correct?” Konrad looked up at her.

  “Yes, but none of us saw the body at the scene. I also didn’t find any evidence that he hit anything on the way down.” Evans remembered the medication in Grayson’s bathroom. “He had a prescription for Nardil, an antidepressant.”