Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (14 page)

“That’s what the nurse says. She’s seen other kids who’ve eaten pot-laced candy, and they get sick, but not like this.”

Had she been supportive enough to switch into reporter mode already? She went for it. “Did he eat the whole brownie?”

“Yes.” Brian fought back tears. “The nurses asked me the same thing. I wish I had a piece of it for a lab test.” His eyes locked onto hers. “None of my friends got sick. I didn’t get sick. So if there was something in the brownie, it was just that one.”

“They were individually wrapped?”

He nodded.

“It might be some kind of product tampering.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Brian winced. “But maybe I’m just trying to let myself off the hook.”

“Where did you buy the brownies?”

“At Herbal Solutions. But they’re made by Hightones, a local bakery.”

She jotted down both names. Had the same psycho nutcase shot a pot grower and poisoned his crop? “I’m going to ask the hospital staff some questions, okay?”

He mustered a weak smile. “It’s what you do.”

Sophie gave a little smile back. “I hope I can help figure this out.” She left the room, trying not to hurry too much.

Out in the hall, she headed back to the main nurses’ station. A group of women in yellow scrubs, plus one female doctor in a white overcoat, stood in the L-shaped area, discussing two patients. Sophie got as close as she could, then stopped and pulled out her phone. She kept her head down, pretending to be texting with someone while she listened to their conversation.

“He has the same symptoms as the older female patient,” said a young nurse, who looked fresh out of college.

“Her name’s Denise Lammers,” a tall older nurse added.

“Give the boy activated charcoal every hour and atropine if his vitals get too low,” the doctor responded. “That’s all we can do until we have lab results.”

“But if it’s not a common poison, the lab won’t tell us anything.” The older nurse sounded upset.

“Denise is getting worse,” the young nurse said. “Her blood pressure is low, and her heart rate is forty-two.”

“Give her another dose of atropine.”

“I think we should notify the police.” The older nurse crossed her arms.

“That’s premature.” The doctor stepped back, prepared to leave. “They ingested different things.”

“Maybe not.” The older nurse stepped toward the doctor and lowered her voice. “What if Denise lied to us because she didn’t want to admit she’d consumed a marijuana brownie?”

Two cases of product tampering?
A surge of energy shot through Sophie’s chest.

“I’ll go ask her.” The doctor spun and walked down the hall.

Sophie hurried after her. She knew the name Denise Lammers, but she hadn’t placed it yet. The doctor turned into a room near the ICU entry. Sophie stood outside the door, staring at the phone in her hand and listening hard. She couldn’t believe no one had approached her about what the hell she was doing. But her small size and pixie face made her seem harmless. And everyone on staff seemed preoccupied.

Inside the room, the doctor spoke to the patient, but there was no response. At least that Sophie could hear. A moment later, the doctor came back out and glanced at her. “Are you here to see Denise?”

“Yes, we’re coworkers. How is she?”

“Still unconscious. But you can go in for a while. Sometimes talking to patients will bring them out of it.”

“Thanks.” Sophie nodded and hurried into the room. As soon as she saw the woman in bed, she recognized her. Jackson’s boss. Sergeant Lammers had been the one to finally make Jackson sit down with her for an interview. It had taken him years to get over that forced encounter and be nice to her.
What the hell?
Had Lammers ingested a pot brownie—or another type of marijuana? Now that it was legal, all kinds of people were smoking and eating it. But a police sergeant? A full surge of adrenaline this time. What a story!

“What are you doing in here?” A woman had come into the room. She was gray-haired, plump, and wearing baggy clothes.

“Just checking on Denise.” Sophie offered her most charming smile. “She’s an acquaintance.”

A scowl. “What’s your name?”

“Sophie Speranza. And yours?”

Wide-eyed alarm. “You can’t report this!”

“Did you know a six-year-old boy was also poisoned? His name is Shane, and he’s down the hall. His father thinks he’s going to die.” Sophie had to get this woman to realize how important the truth was.

“That’s terrible, but what does this have to do with me? Or Denise?”

“Denise and Shane have the same symptoms. The doctor was just in here trying to question Denise about what she consumed.”

Rapid blinking.

“Tell me your name.”

“Susan.”

“Susan, if Denise ate a pot brownie, you have to tell the doctors. What if some freak is tampering with those products? More people could get sick.”

“Oh dear.” Susan turned and gazed at the woman in the hospital bed.

Such love!
They were partners.

“I’m sorry, Denise.” After apologizing to her unconscious lover, Susan turned back to Sophie. “Yes. She has a medical marijuana card for pain, and she ate a brownie.” Susan clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Please don’t report that. Or at least don’t use her name. Denise could lose her job.”

Sophie glanced at the sergeant. She looked like she could lose her life first. “I’ll protect her as much as I can.” Sophie didn’t know if she could keep that promise. The readers came first.

Susan nodded. “You should tell Detective Evans about the sick boy. She’s investigating the pot stores to find the source of the poison.” The woman searched her purse as she talked. “I have her card in here somewhere.”

“I have Evans’ number.” Would the detective trade information with her? Maybe not. “Will you answer a few more questions?”

Susan stepped toward a recliner, where she’d left a book and a sweater. “I’d rather not. This is very stressful for me.”

“I understand. Thanks for your time.” Sophie hurried out. She couldn’t wait to start writing the new copy. She would contact Detective Evans on the way. Maybe someone needed to recall all the brownies from pot stores until they figured this out. As Sophie was walking to her car, her editor called.

“Hey, Karl.”

“There’s a hostage standoff going on right now with a full SWAT response. On Larkspur. Get out there now.”

Good grief!
Another front-page story. Sophie’s pulse accelerated before she even started jogging through the parking garage. “I’m on my way. What else can you tell me?”

“The man with the gun is a veteran named Conner Harron, and the police have evacuated the street. One of his neighbors called us.” Karl swore at someone in the background, then asked, “Do you know where the hell Brian is?”

Oh shit.
She wasn’t sure what her coworker had told their boss. “His kid is really sick.”

“It would be nice for him to let me know.”

“Don’t worry. I have a decent camera with me. I can take photos.”

“Do that. But I’ll see if I can get another photographer out there.”

He meant one of the sports photographers. They hated doing coverage that didn’t involve a game of some kind. “I’ll get some good shots. I did okay with the shooting scene, didn’t I?”

“I want to do better than okay.”

“Right. See you later.” Sophie climbed into her car. What a crazy week this was turning into. Her job was like that though. Some weeks, she had nothing, so she sat in court and covered criminal trials. And other times—like last summer, when they had five murders in one month—she couldn’t keep up with the back-to-back crimes and had to get help from an intern. But she wouldn’t ask yet. She could handle both stories, even if she had to work around the clock.

CHAPTER 18

Thursday, December 3, 12:12 p.m.

Evans pulled into the complex on the corner of Second and Chambers and willed herself to be calm. Being at the training facility, which doubled as a 911 call center, always made her feel amped, but the SWAT callout had given her a jolt of adrenaline. The big armored truck—affectionately called Barney because of its deep-violet hue—sat in the side lot, ready to be boarded.

She jogged toward the building, where officers were spilling out in full SWAT gear, many wearing camo. Several nodded as she rushed inside. At her locker, she quickly changed into her fatigues, unconcerned with finding a private place. As the only woman on the team, she didn’t ask for special privileges or treatment. A male officer walked by the end of the locker aisle without a glance at her. Evans pulled on boots and a Kevlar vest, shoved her dress clothes into a locker, and hurried into the supply room.

“First callout?” An older sergeant grinned as he handed her an assault rifle, a radio, and a flash-bang grenade.

“Yep. Where are we headed?”

“Larkspur, off Norkenzie. The latest word is that the suspect is holed up inside his house.”

Still wearing her Sig Sauer on her waist, Evans strapped the rifle across her back. She might have to shoot someone today—for the first time in her career. Not a pleasant thought. But most critical-incident situations were resolved peacefully. The negotiators were excellent at their jobs. Her role was on the hasty team, a frontline position that meant she would be one of the first to enter the house—if that was called for. It was an honor to be trusted with that responsibility. But it was more about the fact that she didn’t have enough training to qualify as a sniper. Her specialty—and every SWAT member had one—was
agile entry. Being smaller and more flexible than her peers, she would be the one to crawl in through a dog door or ventilation system. She was also skilled at tossing a flash bomb through small openings and hitting her target. A spot on the team had to be earned, and she’d worked her ass off for it. That was part of what had gone wrong with her and Ben. He’d been busy with his son’s activities, and she’d spent all her free time training for the SWAT physical and specialty maneuvers.

Evans strode outside and checked in with Sergeant Bruckner—a wall of muscle with a shaved head and a big voice—then joined the hasty team in the back of the rig. Two of the men talked animatedly about a sports game they’d watched recently, but the other nine were quiet. She sat next to Officer Callow, said a quick hello, then kept quiet too. She didn’t want to be labeled as a talkative woman.

“We’re rolling out,” Bruckner called from the parking lot. He closed Barney’s back door, and it latched with a loud thud. The sound vibrated through her body with finality. No turning back. Not only was this the day she might shoot someone, it was also the day she might die on the job. She’d faced plenty of those as a patrol officer, but none had been expected. She’d never purposely put herself in harm’s way before—not counting the time she’d boarded a moving airplane piloted by a killer.

Today she might enter a house where a man was intent on killing cops, and she might be the first one he encountered. His home could be rigged with bombs or booby traps. Crazy people were more deadly than ever these days. Evans took deep breaths and willed herself to stop thinking about it.

A little later, when the doors opened again, she was the first one out, noting their location on the corner. The target house was about a hundred yards away, but this spot would serve as their command post—as long as the weather stayed dry. If he had to, Bruckner would take over someone’s home as a command center. As a hasty team member, she wouldn’t be here long. They all gathered around the hood of Bruckner’s patrol car, and more squad units arrived, along with the big tech rig, a box-style vehicle that carried surveillance and communication equipment and technicians. Normally, the tech rig didn’t go out unless they had a hostage situation, so the sight of it concerned her.

“Do we have hostages?” she asked Bruckner.

“No, but the caller said the suspect was threatening neighbors, so I wanted to be prepared.” The sergeant spread out a printed map of the neighborhood. “The target house is here.” He tapped the third house from the corner on the map, then glanced over and pointed at a small blue home with a large yard. All of the residences on the short street were older single-story buildings that were well maintained.

“Evans, position yourself behind the side fence of the house to the left. The white one.”

It was light gray, but she didn’t correct him. “Got it.”

She waited while he gave each hasty team member a post and started lining up the snipers. They would sit in tall trees and on the rooftops of surrounding homes.

Another sergeant approached the group. Bruckner turned to him. “Let’s start the evacuation. And find out who called it in.”

“Roger that.” The sergeant went back to a group of patrol officers who had responded. They would go door-to-door, escorting residents out of their homes. The goal was to minimize danger and limit negative outcomes.

“We don’t know who made the call?” That surprised her. It had taken years, but the department finally had better access to cell phone numbers.

“Not yet. It was a prepaid.”

Those phones were used mostly by poor people, teenagers, and criminals. This neighborhood didn’t seem to match those profiles, except possibly the teenage one. But the caller also could have been passing through or visiting and seen the suspect outside of his house, carrying a gun.

While the team waited for the negotiator to arrive, Bruckner talked them through a few scenarios. “If he gets into his vehicle, we take out the tires first. Unless he’s still armed.”

“What’s he packing?” Evans asked.

“The caller used only the word
gun
, but our suspect, Conner Harron, is a veteran and the registered owner of two rifles and a Walther handgun.”

Oh shit.
The suspect was trained to use weapons. Maybe even itching to fire them again. “What else do we know about Harron?”

“Not much, except that he has a domestic-abuse conviction and several arrests for disorderly conduct. I’m still waiting on a call back from his sister.” Bruckner’s tone was sharp.

As a detective, Evans asked questions all day, so it was a habit, but the sergeant wasn’t used to answering them.

A woman in civilian clothes walked up. Lieutenant Miller, the negotiator. Evans admired her. She’d been the first woman to qualify for and join the SWAT unit, but they’d quickly promoted her up and out. Then she’d come back as a negotiator. So far, Evans hadn’t encountered any hostility based on her gender, but this was her first outing, so her performance today was critical. Any mistake could start a backlash that could lead to her being booted, one way or another. On paper, the EPD wasn’t sexist or racist, but the reality of what white men—the majority—really thought and said could be quite different.

Bruckner’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the ID and took the call.

It had to be important.

Bruckner listened, then said, “Put her through.” He covered the phone, turned to the negotiator, and said, “It’s Harron’s therapist. He called her after this started, and she’s trying to talk him down.”

“Let me speak to her.” Lieutenant Miller reached for Bruckner’s phone.

Maybe this would be resolved peacefully.

The sergeant handed his phone to the negotiator, and they all waited through a long, testy conversation. Evans heard only one side of it, but she had to assume the therapist wanted the whole unit to back away and not do anything that would trigger Harron’s PTSD. The negotiator insisted on keeping their positions, but promised no loudspeakers.

When the negotiator hung up, Bruckner turned to his crew. “Hasty team in place. Go!” The command that set the confrontation in motion.

Evans hustled to the sidewalk, then turned, running toward the target home. She stayed to the inside edge of the concrete, keeping out of the suspect’s line of sight as much as possible. A cacophony of heavy footsteps pounded behind her, and her pulse kept pace. When she reached the fence separating the target house from the one next door, she ducked down behind it, landing on her knees. Eventually, she would move into a squat, but it was too early. Several team members ran down the property line to the back. They would scale fences and eventually reach the other side of the suspect’s house—without ever crossing his sight line on the street. Her position was closest. She hoped she didn’t get the order to move in alone. Not on her first time out. But it was unlikely, a last resort for situations where hostages inside the building needed to be rescued.

She took long, slow breaths to calm her heartbeat. This was the hardest part. Waiting and staying calm while the negotiations played out. Lieutenant Miller would handle them from the command center, after sending in a cell phone duct-taped to a remote-controlled hailer. Best-case scenario, the suspect would accept the cell phone and engage in conversation, letting his frustrations and demands be known. Or better yet, his therapist would talk him into surrendering. Worst-case scenario, he would refuse to negotiate and continue to threaten himself or others. She hoped he wasn’t suicidal. Those scenarios could take forever, and usually had bad outcomes. She personally believed he should be allowed to kill himself if he wanted to, but their mission was to prevent that. Still, shooting him to prevent him from taking his own life made no sense.

Ten long minutes later, Bruckner’s voice came through her shoulder radio. “We’ve made contact with Harron. He denies threatening anyone and wants us to leave. But he’s armed and agitated.”

The denial bothered her. Especially combined with the unidentified 911 caller. Was this a hoax? Had Conner Harron been swatted? Even so, he was armed and agitated now. They needed to diffuse the situation. Evans pressed a button on her radio to respond. “Did we find the person who called it in?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“We should question the neighbors. Find out if Harron really made threats. And give his therapist more time.”

“Evans, you’re not running this operation, I am. And I’ve got experience. Denial is part of the process, so back off.”

Great.
She’d pissed off the sergeant, and her teammates had heard the exchange. “Yes, sir.” Would this be her first and last SWAT callout?

“I repeat, he’s armed and agitated,” Bruckner said. “Hold your positions. We still hope to engage him.”

“Copy that.” Evans settled in to wait. The negotiations could take hours.

After what seemed like twenty minutes of silence, she heard a commotion at the command center. A woman was shouting something about her son Ronnie. Evans pivoted and strained to hear Lieutenant Miller talking to Harron on the negotiation cell phone. She caught bits of one side of the conversation. “. . . have Ronnie? . . . then let him go . . . Prove it.”

Another long silence, then Bruckner’s voice was back over her radio. “Harron has a kid in there that he claims is not a hostage. Someone who is just visiting. But Harron won’t send him out.”

Shit!
A child hostage. This would not end well. The therapist had obviously failed to get Harron to surrender or send the kid out. And Bruckner probably wouldn’t give anyone more time.

A pause while the negotiator said something in the background, then Bruckner announced, “We’ll stage a fake pullout. Pinter and Ross, leave your posts now and run down the street so he can see you. Then get inside Barney. Everyone else, be ready to go in. After the vehicles start to move, I’ll give the command.”

Evans’ heart skipped a beat. This was happening!

“Evans, the snipers report that the boy is in a bedroom on your side. Go in the window if you can. Take the boy out the same way. Otherwise, wait for the team to apprehend Harron.” Bruckner’s voice went soft, almost pleading. “Don’t fail me.” The sergeant shifted gears. “Johnson, Morris, and Morales, take the front door. Use a flash bang. Radcliff, you watch the back.”

He spoke directly to her again. “Evans, are you ready?”

She’d been born ready, but she kept that to herself. “Copy that.”

Running footsteps in the street as Pinter and Ross retreated. The back door of the rig slammed shut, and five vehicle engines rumbled to life in a few short seconds.

Any moment.
Evans pulled in a deep breath.
Don’t hesitate. Just go.
She’d trained for this.

“Move in!”

Evans shot to her feet and rushed around the end of the fence. A quick glance at the blue house, but no sign of Harron. With her Sig Sauer in hand, she bent over to stay low and charged down the fence line. The front yard was rough with tall grass and sunken pockets. After stepping into one and careening off-balance for a moment, she slowed down, glad for the heavy boots. Once she passed the front wall of the house and the suspect’s sight line, she veered left through the side yard, darting around a rusted lawn mower, a trash can, and bags of garbage. She saw two windows on the exterior wall: a small one about six feet off the ground, and beyond it, a larger window with a waist-high sliding egress and a gauzy pale curtain. She bolted for the second window and flattened herself against the house.