Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (3 page)

He moved quickly around the perimeter of the room, scanning mostly for a wall safe that might have been robbed. The shooter obviously hadn’t taken any of the plants, nor did they look harvested. So this wasn’t about stealing the marijuana crop. That surprised him. But it meant that the shooting was likely a personal attack.

The metal walls were bare, with only a narrow passage between them and the outer rows of plants. A door at the back led out into a grassy area surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Jackson glanced around, didn’t see anything noteworthy, and closed the door. His search of the second half of the room produced nothing. All of the growing equipment, soil, and fertilizers were up front. No wall safe, no cupboard that might have been filled with cash, no bloody footprints at the back door. The killer had most likely stepped into the building, shot the two growers, and fled. To solve this one, they would need a witness, a weapon, or a ballistics match. Or maybe a stupid perp who talked about his crime.

When Jackson reached the front again, the medical examiner came through the door, followed by two female technicians. They were all carrying equipment.

“That’s quite a stink!” Rich Gunderson reached into his oversize case for a face mask. The ME adjusted the mask over his gray ponytail, pulled off his black coat, and nodded as he walked over.

“One of the victims is still alive and on her way to the hospital,” Jackson reported.

“A woman?” Gunderson raised a thick gray eyebrow. “That’s unusual for a nondomestic shooting.”

“We haven’t ruled out anything yet.” The pot plants might be only background scenery for a jilted lover hell-bent on killing the cheaters. It wasn’t his first theory, but it was a good runner-up.

Gunderson kneeled by the body. “I’ll get the vic’s temperature first, because I know how impatient you are for time of death.”

Jackson suppressed a grin. “It helps to know the TOD when we question the neighbors.” Because the woman was still alive, he suspected the shooting had been quite recent.

Jasmine Parker, a pencil-thin technician he’d never seen smile, set her equipment down and pulled out gloves. “I don’t see any casings. Did the shooter clean up, or do you have them?”

“Schak does.” Despite Parker’s no-nonsense manner, Jackson was glad she was working the scene. “Schak will turn them over to Joe this afternoon.” The evidence team would calculate trajectories, map out the shooting, and tell his task force exactly how it went down. Figuring out who did it was his job.

While the ME stuck a temperature probe into the corpse, Jackson scanned the shelf where the growers had been working. They had been coating pot-plant clippings with rooting hormone, then planting them in little dirt-filled cups—creating the next crop. A familiar shape caught his eye. A cell phone. Likely one of the victims’. He picked it up, hoping to check for recent calls, but the device was locked. He slipped it into an evidence bag, thinking he would take it to one of the department’s tech experts to help access it.

“This body is still quite warm, and so is this room,” Gunderson said. “He was shot between seven and eight this morning.”

“Thanks.” Jackson hoped to get a more exact time from the surviving victim soon. “I’ll let you guys have the room now.”

Outside, he crossed to the back porch, glancing around for Schak, who hadn’t come back into the nursery. He spotted him next to the faded wood fence that bordered the property. Schak bent over, retrieved something, and stood up. His partner turned, and Jackson called out, “What have you got?”

Schak tromped toward him through tall, wet grass. “A business card. Matt Sheldon of Ganja Growers.”

Friend or foe?
“Damn. Do you suppose it dropped out of his pocket as he fled the scene—after killing his competitors?”

“Could we get that lucky?”

CHAPTER 3

“It’s happened,” Jackson said. Perps left all kinds of incriminating items, including cell phones, wallets, and other obvious ID.

Still wearing his gloves, Schak slipped the small card into an evidence bag.

“Did you get a photo of where you found it?”

“Shit. I’ll go put it back and do that now.” Schak started across the grass.

Jackson didn’t stop him, but couldn’t witness the charade either. He climbed the steps to the back porch and called over his shoulder, “I’m going inside.”

The back door opened into a mudroom lined with shoes. A patrol officer entered from the other side, and a big kitchen was visible behind him through the opening. “Officer Darwood.” He held out his hand. “Are you running this case?”

Jackson nodded as they shook hands, then introduced himself. “Were you first on the scene?”

“Yes.” The shorter, younger man swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize she was still alive at first, so I started taking photos. Then I saw her chest move.”

“Did you touch her or assist in any way?” His team needed to account for everything.

“No. I heard the ambulance coming, so I went out front to direct them back here. I figured getting the paramedics to her quickly was the best thing.”

“It was. Anything unusual or important about the scene—before they moved her?”

“Only that the vics were close together, as if they’d been standing next to each other when they were shot.”

“Good to know. Send me your pictures, please.” Jackson shifted, ready to find the woman’s ID.

Officer Darwood had more to say though. “I went to ask the neighbor if he saw or heard anything, and he freaked out and slammed the door in my face. Another officer is watching his house to see if he leaves, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

Potentially interesting.
Sometimes men in rural settings were a bit paranoid. The female victim’s whispered words came back to him.
Old man.
“What’s the neighbor’s age?”

“Sixty-five, maybe seventy.”

A solid suspect. “Let’s go pick him up.”

The officer turned, and Jackson followed him through the house. Evans stood at a dining room table, pulling items from a black leather purse.

“You get her ID yet?”

“Should be right here.” She opened a long, thin wallet. “Kayla Benson, age twenty-eight.”

“See if she has a record.” He would have bet money on it. “And find out who the grow operation is licensed to. We’re going to pick up the neighbor.”

Evans looked disappointed to be left out. But Quince hadn’t shown up yet, and Jackson needed her to stay and work the case. Any cop with a gun and a loud voice could help round up a testy suspect.

As they walked out the front, Officer Darwood pointed. “He lives just past those trees.”

“Take your vehicle,” Jackson directed. He needed a place to confine the neighbor, and his own vehicle didn’t have a barrier between the front and back seats.

The officer hustled to his patrol car, and Jackson jogged toward the road. A pain in his gut caught him by surprise.
Oh crap.
Jackson had been taking steroids off and on for two years, and his fibrosis had been dormant for the past year. But his doctor had warned him that the weird growth circling his aorta could be a lifelong problem. If the discomfort continued, he would get another CT scan—and maybe have another surgery, if necessary. Jackson slowed to a fast walk to minimize the pain and tried not to think about the disease and what it would mean for his kids if—or when—it eventually killed him.

He walked along the shoulder of the road to reach the next farmhouse, a shabbier, smaller version of the growers’ home. Once painted a pale blue, the siding now had bare wood showing around the bottom, and three junk vehicles sat in the grass alongside the house, as if they’d been planted there. A big black lab barked viciously from behind a chain-link fence, and Jackson tensed. His left eyebrow would always bear the scar of a dog bite, and he had little use for canines. The fact that the animal was outside gave him hope the owner wouldn’t use the dog as a shield or a weapon. Jackson felt for his gun, then joined Officer Darwood on the crumbling cement step in front of the house.

Jackson pounded on the door, then shouted, “Eugene Police. Open up!”

They heard footsteps inside the house, coming rapidly toward them. Not good. He and Darwood jumped to separate sides of the door—out of firing range if the suspect started shooting.

“Keep your hands where we can see them!” Jackson drew his weapon into position, and so did the patrol officer.

The door opened, and the suspect leaned out into view. Skinny, with a face that had started small, then shrunk over the years as he lost his teeth. Wispy gray hair that should have made him seem harmless gave him a crazed look instead. But no weapon in sight. Jackson lowered his gun.

“What do you want?” the old man yelled. “I’m in the middle of making chutney.”

The barking got louder.

“We need to ask some questions,” Jackson said, stepping out to face him. “Come outside, please.”

“What is this about?”

Jackson wanted the suspect in the back of the patrol car, where he couldn’t run or communicate with his dog. Or dogs—if there were more inside. Yet Jackson also wanted to enter the house and see if he had any weapons. “We just want to ask about your neighbors. I’d like to come in so we can be heard over the barking.”

“You mean the goddamn smelly pot growers?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. Those fuckers!” The neighbor’s whole body clenched. “Did they file a complaint about me? That’s ironic.”

Did this guy really not know they were dead, or was he covering his ass? Jackson raised his voice. “This is a homicide investigation. Step back and let us in. Now.”

The neighbor was quiet for a long moment as he considered his options.

Jackson hated these situations. He had the legal right to detain the suspect for questioning. But once he took him into custody, he had to read him his rights. When suspects were reminded they had a right to a lawyer, they often quit answering questions and asked for one. It was best to keep the interrogation informal for as long as possible.

“I’ll give you five minutes, right here,” the old man finally said. “After that, I want a lawyer.”

Jackson glanced at Officer Darwood, hoping he would step inside and take a look around when the opportunity arose. To the neighbor, Jackson said, “Come out here and we’ll get this over with.”

The suspect stepped over the threshold but continued to block the entrance to his home.

Jackson was tired of the bullshit. “What’s your name?”

“Clark Paulson. Like the street.” The man pointed down the road, his wrinkled hand displaying a subtle tremor. “My grandpa used to own all this land.”

Was he bitter about losing it? “Where were you this morning between seven and eight?”

“Sleeping, like everyone else.” Paulson shoved his hands into his pockets. “Who’s dead? Did someone shoot the pot growers?”

“You assumed they were shot. We’d like to see your guns.”

“No.” Paulson shook his tiny head in anger. “Not without a warrant. Just because I threatened to shoot ’em doesn’t mean I did.”

This guy was begging to be arrested. “Why did you threaten to shoot them?”

“Can’t you smell the damn stuff? The wind carries the stink right into my house, even with the windows closed. I asked ’em to put in a better ventilation system, but they wouldn’t do it.”

“Did you have a gun with you when you confronted them?”

The suspect glanced away. “Not about the ventilation.”

The barking dog was fraying Jackson’s nerves, but he didn’t want to break the rhythm of the conversation. “What else did you confront them about?”

“The loud music, the cars late at night. They were shitty neighbors.”

“When did you confront them with a gun?”

Paulson rocked on his feet. “It wasn’t like that. I never pointed the gun at them. But I carry it sometimes.”

“You don’t have a concealed-carry permit, do you?”

His eyes lit up. “I don’t need one! The Second Amendment guarantees it.”

A solid reason to arrest him—when the time was right. “Will you make the dog be quiet?”

Paulson looked irritated, but he hopped off the porch and shouted at the dog, which immediately stopped barking.

Officer Darwood took the opportunity to rush into the house. When the suspect turned back toward Jackson, he noticed the missing officer.

“Hey, is that cop in my house?” Paulson charged toward the door.

Jackson stepped in front of him and took a soft body blow. “Don’t even think about it. You’re under arrest for threatening your neighbors with a firearm. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Paulson spun and leapt onto the porch, surprisingly agile for his age. Jackson charged after him, ignoring the pain in his gut, as the suspect rushed into the house. Officer Darwood wasn’t in sight. Paulson bolted through the small living room and into a short hallway. Jackson caught up to him as they reached a bedroom at the back of the house. He squeezed the top of the man’s shoulder, then shoved a knee into the back of his leg, forcing him to the ground. Jackson pulled his cuffs, holstered his weapon, and grabbed the suspect’s elbow. “Hands behind your back!”

Paulson didn’t cooperate, but he didn’t fight either, and Jackson cuffed him without incident. He stood and took a quick breath to calm his racing pulse. When he’d made the promotion to detective all those years ago, he’d thought his days of chasing and fighting criminals were over. But that hadn’t turned out to be true, and to some extent, he was glad. The interactions kept him from getting soft. He pulled the suspect to his feet. “Let’s go. In the car.”

“You can’t come into my house without a warrant!” Paulson seemed more worried than angry now.

What would Darwood find?
Jackson needed another detective on this case to help search the residences. But everyone was already stretched thin. He fully appreciated the stress of Sergeant Lammers’ job. “You admitted to the crime. We don’t need a warrant to search for the weapon you used.”

Officer Darwood was in the hall, and he made up a reason to have entered the home: “When the dog stopped barking, I heard someone crying in the house, and I responded.”

“Bullshit!” Spit dribbled from Paulson’s nearly toothless mouth as Jackson and Darwood steered him out the front door. They put him into the back of the squad car, read him his rights, and locked the door. Jackson was eager to question him, but the more leverage he had, the more productive the interrogation would be.

“What did you find?” he asked the officer as they headed back inside. The dog was barking again, and Jackson felt sorry for the neighbors within earshot. What could they do to quiet the animal? They might have to be inside the house for hours, depending on what they discovered.

“A closet full of guns, most with the serial numbers scraped off.”

“Let’s hope one matches the casings at the crime scene.” Jackson stopped. “We’ll get a ballistics expert out here to collect and tag the weapons. And we’ll search the rest of the house.”

“I’ll start with electronics.” Darwood glanced around. “If the old man has any.”

Jackson called the crime lab and left a message for Joe Berloni to drop whatever he was doing and come out to the scene. Next he called Evans. “I’m still at the neighbor’s, but we have a suspect in custody, and I’m headed back to the crime scene.”

“Good news. Quince is here now, and the three of us are searching Stalling’s home. We haven’t found anything interesting yet, including a computer, which he doesn’t seem to have.”

When he’d last seen Evans, she’d had the surviving victim’s ID in hand. “Did you run Kayla Benson through the system?”

“I did. And it’s a little peculiar. She’s new to the area, and I can’t really find much about her. I think the ID might be phony.”