Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (3 page)

Jackson planned to focus on the family’s cell phones, where he would find their most important contacts. He started for the house, then heard Sergeant Lammers call out, “Jackson, wait.” She came barreling up the sidewalk, creating her own wind factor. Lammers rarely attended a crime scene but this was no ordinary homicide.

“Sergeant.”

“Are you acting as primary here?”

“I assumed I was.”

“I don’t think you’re ready.” Her hands came up to her hips and her green eyes challenged him. She was his height and matched him pound for pound.

Jackson kept his face blank. “This is a tough case. I need to run it.”

“Your surgery was only five weeks ago. You still look pale.”

“It’s early June. Everyone is pale.”

“I need your experience here and your determination, but I can’t let you push yourself too hard.” Lammers nodded in the general direction of his belly scar. “You can have all the help you need, except for Detectives Bohnert and Rios, because they’re working the car jacking case.”

“I could use more patrol units. I want to round up people and bring them here to interview.”

“You’ve got it. Solve this quickly, please.” She reached for her cell phone. “The public is jittery enough with these car jackings. The last woman was hurt badly.”

More vehicles raced up the street, including the white KRSL news van.
Crap
. That didn’t take long. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the street, but it wasn’t always enough to keep the media at a distance. Especially a certain newspaper reporter who managed to worm her way into his cases.

Jackson jogged up the driveway, not wanting to get caught by a cameraman’s telephoto lens. He hated seeing the bodies again, but he needed to gather cell phones and check the other rooms in the house. To find the perpetrator of this heinous crime, he had to get to know each of the victims, to peel away the layers of their lives and see where their connections led.

Schak was still at the computer in the living room, and a crime tech lifted fingerprints from the front windowsill. Joe had pulled the plaid couch away from the wall to make room to work. The window had sliders opening on both sides of the solid center, but the screens were still in place.

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“None in this room,” Joe said, not looking up. “The front door mechanisms weren’t jimmied or smashed and the screens are still in place, so no one came through the front widow. Unless they put the screen back when they left.”

Jackson crossed to where Schak clicked open computer files. “Anything jump out at you?”

“Not so far. Lots of photos, music downloads, and jewelry designs. Very few text documents. This is not a family of writers.”

“Are there more computers in the house?”

“There’s a laptop in one of the bedrooms. McCray is looking at it now.”

Jackson remembered the purse on the kitchen counter. Is that where Carla kept her phone? He braced himself and headed for the cluster on the other side of the archway. Jasmine Parker, the lead evidence technician, was bagging the severed hand, her face expressionless as always. The DA looked like a man waiting in a hospital, not expecting good news, and his assistant looked queasy. The medical examiner knelt next to the dead man and said, “He took two blows to the head. From the looks of their placement, I’d say the perpetrator was shorter than this victim.”

Jackson jotted down
Perp likely
<
6’ tall
. It didn’t narrow the field much. “Anything else I should know about the assailant?”

“The force behind these blows was very powerful. Your perpetrator may not be exceptionally tall, but he’s exceptionally strong.”

“Any idea why he left the girl alive?” The DA glanced at Jackson.

“He probably didn’t mean to,” Jackson speculated. “The father was likely his target. Or maybe the mother, but either way, he had to take out the father first. The kids may have been an afterthought. They probably came in to see what the commotion was about. The perp was on his way out and only knifed them because they saw him or got in his way. By then, his rage and energy were spent, and the attack on them was weaker. He may have thought the girl was dead.”

Slonecker nodded and turned to the ME. “He didn’t use the baseball bat on the kids?”

“The medics transported the girl out before I got here,” Gunderson said, “but the boy has no head trauma.”

“The girl has none I could see,” Jackson added. “There might be two killers.”

“We have a working theory then.” Slonecker shifted his weight like a man ready to move on. “Any suspects yet?”

“We have patrol units looking for Shane Compton, a cousin who spends time here and used to have a drug problem.” Jackson walked lightly around the perimeter of the room. “I’m grabbing Carla Walker’s phone, then I’ll create a comprehensive list of contacts for the family.”

“Anything you need from us, just ask. My assistants will write all the subpoenas to save you time.”

“We need phone records going back three months for every cell phone in this house. I’ll have a list to you in a few minutes.”

Jackson grabbed the denim purse, tucked it into his oversized bag, and began a room-by-room search. The first bedroom clearly belonged to a female. The bedspread was a fuzzy pale orange, and the walls held posters of Brad Pitt and a young female singer Jackson didn’t recognize. Clothes covered a rattan chair in the corner and books were scattered across the desk: a math book from school, a library book about Hawaii, and a paperback titled
Dead Girl Walking
. The room was fairly tidy for a teenager. McCray sat at the desk, perusing a small white laptop.

“Did you see a cell phone in here?” Jackson asked.

“I did a cursory search of the drawers and closet.” McCray glanced over his shoulder. “No drugs, no weapons, no cell phone.”

His partner’s well-worn face seemed to have new worry lines. Was it the case or something personal? Now was not the time to ask. “Anything interesting on her laptop?”

“Her internet history shows recent visits to a site where people connect with roommates and several sites listing rentals in Maui. She may have been planning, or at least dreaming of, a move to Hawaii.”

“Seems like age-appropriate behavior. What about e-mails?”

“Mostly to and from a girl named Jenna, no last name mentioned, and a guy named Dylan Dalka, who lives in Australia. Lori, the daughter, seems unhappy with her waitressing job and is worried about her family’s finances.”

“Both parents were laid off recently. We’ll talk to their ex-employers tomorrow.” Jackson gave the room another quick look. Nothing grabbed his attention. “Is there a purse on the desk?”

“There’s this.” McCray handed him a plastic evidence bag containing a small red backpack. “Her driver’s license says Lori Anne Walker, age eighteen.”

She was about to graduate from high school, Jackson thought. Please let her live. His next thought gave him a jolt. What if Lori was still in danger? If the killer knew the family, he would soon find out Lori had survived. Jackson called Sergeant Lammers, who was probably still standing on the sidewalk, and asked for round-the-clock patrol support outside Lori’s hospital room.

Jackson slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket, stuffed the red backpack into his now-bulging shoulder bag, and walked down the hall. The door to the next room stood open and the stink of rotting shoes drifted into the hallway. Clothes, papers, sports equipment, and gadgets cluttered the room like an invasive growth. Jackson was glad to be wearing gloves as he checked the pockets of the jeans on the floor, searching for the boy’s cell phone. He found a pocketknife, two condoms, and a crumpled notice from school. The cell phone was on top of a tall dresser crammed with unfolded clothes. Jackson bagged the phone, then conducted a quick search of the drawers and closet.

Satisfied there was nothing pertinent in the boy’s room, Jackson crossed the hall to the master bedroom. Later, they would slow down and carefully examine everything, but right now he was looking for the obvious—a bloody handprint on the wall, a discharged weapon, hate mail—anything that would give them a direction and a suspect to bring into custody.

The room was a study in contrasts. Light blue carpet for her, a brown-and-gray bedspread for the husband. Dozens of little perfume bottles and tiny glass sculptures on her dresser, and a pile of coins, receipts, and work gloves on his dresser. Jackson’s visual search revealed nothing significant—only more ceramic pigs, presumably collected by Carla, and a stack of hunting/fishing magazines, collected by Jared. On the surface, they seemed like a normal, working class couple with two normal kids.

What the hell had happened here? Had a crazed killer chosen them at random?

Jackson noticed the bed was elevated with corner blocks. He knelt next to it and clicked on his flashlight. Underneath, a large silver container took up a chunk of the space. He grabbed the handle and pulled it out where he could get a look. The weight surprised him, then he realized it was a gun safe. The shape indicated it contained rifles, and the case had a built-in lock that opened with a key. His team would search for the key, but if they didn’t find it, the evidence techs would bust open the safe at the crime lab.

Evans came into the room. “Jackson, I think we have a timeframe for the crimes.”

“Tell me.”

“The neighbor next door on the right heard shouting around eleven o’clock. She heard someone yell, ‘I’ll kill you.’”

Marlyn Beebe was striking, with large violet eyes and dark hair that looked as if it would never go gray. Sitting straight as a board, she enunciated every word carefully. Evans had mentioned on the way over Marlyn was a librarian.

“I was in the kitchen, making some chamomile tea. It helps me sleep.” Marlyn nodded between beats. “I heard shouting from the Walkers’ house. That’s when I heard someone yell ‘I’ll kill you.’” A tear rolled down Marlyn’s face. “I feel terrible now that I didn’t call the police.”

They sat at her kitchen table, a gorgeous piece of handcrafted oak, and bright sunlight filled the space. Marlyn was drinking coffee that smelled wonderful. Jackson considered breaking his no-beverages-from-witnesses rule and accepting some. “What happened after?”

“Nothing really. That’s why I didn’t call. People say that kind of thing when they’re mad. Parents say it to their kids all the time. ‘If you wreck my car, I’ll kill you.’”

“You heard it all the way over here so it must have been loud. Did the person sound angry?”

“Yes.” Marlyn twisted a strand of hair. “I had the kitchen window open, so it wasn’t that loud.”

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No.” Her brows came together. “It didn’t sound like anyone who lives there. At first I thought it might be the friend who comes over. I think his name is Shane, but I’m not sure. I’ve only spoken to him once. He wasn’t shouting then, so it’s hard to say.”

Jackson made a note:
Neighbor says non
-
family voice shouting. Maybe cousin Shane
. “Do they do a lot of yelling next door?”

“Not really. Sometimes I hear Carla hollering at the boy to get up in the morning.” She hesitated. “There’s been more volume lately.” She met Jackson’s eyes. “Was it a murder–suicide? Did Jared go crazy and kill his family?”

“Did he seem like the type?”

“I really don’t know them. They only moved in two years ago. I chat with Carla sometimes when we’re both outside, but we don’t socialize.”

“Renters or owners?”

“Renters.”

“Do you know the landlord?”

“I think it might be Property Management Group.”

Jackson made a note to contact them. “Have you noticed anything unusual lately? New people coming to the house? A change in pattern for anyone?”

Marlyn gave it some thought. “Their cars are home a lot more. I think it’s because they’re unemployed now.”

“Let’s go over last night again. Did you see any cars come or go from the Walker house?”

A little shake of her head. “I didn’t get home until 7:30 after having dinner with my sister. I noticed their Subaru wasn’t in the driveway.”

“Did you hear the car come home at any point?”

“I took a shower, then listened to an audio book. I didn’t hear any outside noises until I went into the kitchen to make tea around eleven o’clock. That’s when I heard the guy yell.”

“You said ‘guy.’ It was a male voice?”

“Probably. I know I didn’t recognize it. I wondered if everything was okay. I listened for a while and heard some movement, but no shouting, so I went back to my audio book. Around midnight, I went to bed.”

Jackson stood. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, let us know.”

He hurried out to the mobile unit, curious to see the list Rita Altman, the sister, had come up with. Before he sat down to interrogate anyone, he needed to know more about this family. He needed to know who was driving the Subaru that came home after 7:30. More important, did they have someone with them?

The sound of sobbing almost made him turn back. Even after all the years of being exposed to the rawest of human emotions, he wasn’t immune to a family’s grief. He’d trained himself to push through and keep asking questions, but it was challenging to feel sharp when the person nearby was sending out palpable pain waves.