Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (15 page)

“Suspect is on the move,” Bruckner called through the radio.

“Where?”

No response. Bruckner either didn’t know or hadn’t heard her. Keeping out of sight, she carefully peered in the window with one eye. Through the thin yellow curtain, she spotted a young boy on the floor, playing with tiny plastic war toys. He looked five or six, like a kid who should have been in school. No sign of the suspect. Evans stepped in front of the window and, with her free hand, pushed sideways on the movable glass panel.

It didn’t budge.
Shit!
Either locked or blocked. Breaking it would be fast, but loud, and would possibly attract the hostage taker. She had no choice. Harron was on the move, and the boy needed protection. She holstered her Sig and tried again with two hands and all her strength. The old lock gave, and the window slid open.
Yes!

Evans hoisted one leg up and over, then pulled herself through. As her second foot landed on the floor, the boy looked up and let out a small cry.

“Come with me!” She gestured with one hand, pulled her weapon free with the other, and strode toward him—all at the same time.

A flash grenade went off in the living room, shaking the house. A split second later, Harron charged into the bedroom. Instinctively, Evans lifted her weapon and aimed at his chest. The suspect held a large handgun. Blood pounded in her ears. “Gun down!” she yelled. But it was too late. His arm was coming up. Was he targeting her or the boy? It didn’t matter. Evans pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. Harron crumpled and fell forward, his gun hand landing on the boy’s legs. The kid screamed and burst into tears.

Evans moved toward the two, shaking with adrenaline overload. She’d just killed a man. And this poor boy had witnessed it.
Oh fuck.
Could she have done anything differently? With one eye on Harron, she squatted next to the boy. Ronnie. His name was Ronnie. “I’m sorry, but you’re safe now.”

Two SWAT members burst into the room, assault rifles at the ready. “You okay?” the lead man called out. Officer Johnson.

“Yes.”

Johnson kneeled next to the body and pushed the suspect’s gun toward his partner. The other officer picked it up while Johnson pulled Harron’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.

We cuff dead men.
The takeaway message of active-shooter training.

The boy continued to cry, his mouth open in an angry wail.

Johnson spoke into his radio. “Harron is down, and the boy is safe. Evans kicked ass.”

The words rolled over her like soothing music. She hadn’t screwed up.

But the feeling was short-lived. The boy suddenly stood and started pounding her legs with his tiny fists. “I hate you! I hate you! You killed my friend.”

Dear god, what had she done?

CHAPTER 19

Thursday, December 3, 2:35 p.m.

Jackson pulled into the Cascade Plaza, a nursing home set in the middle of a residential area in North Eugene, and looked around for Schak’s car. Not seeing it, he grabbed a parking place and climbed out. As if on cue, drenching rain poured from the dark sky. He grabbed his overcoat and umbrella from the car before locking it. He hated to be burdened with anything extra, but it was too damn cold to let himself get soaked. As he headed for the entrance, Schak hustled up the walkway from the other direction. His partner wore a fedora, something he rarely did, and the sight made Jackson smile.

Schak had located Darby Sigler at his place of employment and called to update Jackson. Schak hadn’t asked for backup, but Jackson was eager to talk to the one person who might have witnessed the shootings. They still had a couple of hours before the task force meeting.

“Hey,” Schak said, as they met and turned toward the nursing home.

“Any background on this guy I should know about?”

“A criminal-mischief charge when he was eighteen and a DUI at twenty-one. Nothing that worries me.”

“Good. We’re due for a cooperative witness. By the way, what does Sigler drive?”

“A green Ford.” Schak pointed to a dented car in the back of the lot.

“That doesn’t match the vehicle the neighbor saw leaving. Someone else was there.”

They reached the doors and entered.

“He could be our killer,” Schak reminded him. “He was at the scene, and the person who reports the bodies often is the perp.”

“I know. But that applies mostly to domestics and family killings.” Jackson stopped at the reception area, a narrow chest-high counter.

A woman in purple scrubs looked up. “How can I help you?”

He introduced himself and Schak, then said, “We want to talk to Darby Sigler. He’s not in trouble, but he may have witnessed something. Still, we don’t want you to warn him. Can you get Sigler into a private room where we can ask some questions?”

“Uhh, suuure.” She spoke slowly, as if trying to form a plan and doubting her ability to do so. “Let me check with my boss about using the admin room.”

They waited a full five minutes, without speaking. Jackson checked his phone. Messages from Sophie, which he ignored. When the nursing assistant came back, she led them into a space the size of a walk-in closet, occupied by a copier, a tiny laminated table, and two plastic chairs.

“I’ll go get Darby.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Keep in mind that he’s caring for patients, and we don’t really have anyone to cover for him.”

Jackson nodded. He sympathized with her concerns, but the patients were not his responsibility.

“Cheeky of her,” Schak said, when the door closed.

“It was. But I hear these places are always understaffed.”

“I’ll shoot myself before I let anyone put me in a nursing home.” Schak was dead serious.

“The caregivers of the world are delighted to hear that.”

“Bite me.”

Jackson laughed. “Kera says law-enforcement people make the worst patients. And you wouldn’t last a day in a place like this. Someone would put a pillow over your face and consider it mercy.”

“I would consider it mercy.” Schak reached for one of the chairs, then looked over at him. “Sometimes death is better.”

“Yeah.” Statistically, law-enforcement types were more inclined to commit suicide than workers in almost any other profession. Unfortunately, some cops also killed their spouses when they couldn’t take any more pressure. Because they faced life-and-death scenarios so often, they sometimes developed god complexes that made them feel as if they had the right to kill people. Jackson wanted to say these thoughts out loud, but the topic wasn’t within the bounds of their relationship. If Schak had philosophical thoughts, he didn’t share them often.

The nursing assistant came back with a young man who was also wearing purple scrubs.
Good grief.
The things people had to do for twelve dollars an hour.

“These are the men who want to see you.” She let go of Sigler’s arm and left, closing the door behind her.

Sigler glanced back and forth between him and Schak, eyes flashing with panic. Thirty or so, Jackson guessed. Dark blond and heavyset, with small features pressed into a fleshy face.

“Have a seat,” Jackson said, pointing at the empty chair. He preferred to stand, especially when his retroperitoneal fibrosis was agitated and painful.

Sigler complied, settling on the edge of the white chair. “What is this about?”

“You made a 911 call yesterday morning to report two people shot, then fled the scene.” Jackson decided to go for the jugular and make this quick. The windowless space was even worse than the interrogation rooms at the department. “Why did you kill Josh Stalling and his girlfriend?”

“Whoa! That’s crazy talk.” Sigler put up a brave front.

“We know you were expected to be there. We saw Stalling’s text to you. And a witness saw you leaving.” Lying to people still bothered him, but it was a necessary part of his job.

Sigler squirmed, and his face suddenly became animated. “Okay, I was supposed to help harvest.” Anguish contorted his pudgy face. “But Josh was dead. Still frigging bleeding. And his girlfriend . . .” Sigler pulled his hands to his face as if to block the sight. “I used Josh’s phone to call 911 and left.” The witness moved his hands and pleaded, “You have to believe me. Josh was my friend. Why would I shoot him? I don’t even know how to use a gun.”

Jackson did believe him. “Why not use your own phone? Why not tell the dispatcher who you were? What do you have to hide?”

“Nothin’, man.” Sigler glanced away. “Cops freak me out.” When he looked back at Jackson, the witness said, “No offense. I grew up with paranoid parents. They taught me to avoid the police as much as possible.”

Jackson thought that might be bull. He remembered the neighbor and the car she’d seen. “When exactly did you arrive at the pot farm?”

Sigler shrugged and made an exaggerated expression of confusion. “I really don’t know. I was supposed to be there by seven, and I tried, but it was probably closer to eight.”

According to Sophie’s article, the witness said she saw the gray car leave the farm at ten after seven. Sigler was lucky he’d been late, or he might be dead too. Jackson became aware of Sigler’s faint tobacco smell and remembered the cigarette butt by the front porch. “What brand do you smoke?”

Sigler’s eyes flashed with concern. “Camel Wides.”

“Did you smoke one at the house before you went in?”

“Yeah.”

Too bad.
Jackson had hoped the DNA on the cigarette would help them convict the killer. And Sigler just didn’t have motive. “How do you know Josh?”

Sigler blushed. “We met in jail a decade ago, and we’ve been friends since.”

People bonded while incarcerated. Police officers saw that a lot. “Were you a paid employee of his marijuana nursery?”

“No.” Sigler shook his head vigorously, then gestured around. “I’m a nursing assistant, and I would never jeopardize my job here. I don’t even smoke pot. Helping with the harvest was just a favor for a friend.”

Schak cut in. “He paid you cash under the table, didn’t he?”

Another big head shake. “Josh helped me move a few months ago, so I offered to help him. That’s it.” Sigler’s lower lip trembled. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I mean, I knew the grow business was potentially dangerous, but whoever killed him didn’t even take the crop.”

But they had poisoned it. Jackson needed to know a lot more about the victim. “Did Josh have enemies?”

“No way. People liked him. He was a good person.”

Debatable.
“Yet someone shot him. You knew Josh a long time. You must have some idea.”

Sigler finally relaxed, settling back in his chair. “It had to be about the pot business. The competition is getting crazy. Big companies are trying to buy everyone up, and that worried Josh. He was trying to get a loan to buy the business from his sister.”

That’s news.
“How much money was he trying to borrow?”

“He hoped to make a down payment of fifty grand, then make installments, but he was dreaming.” Sigler let out a derisive laugh. “No one would loan Josh money. Once you have a criminal record, you’re so screwed.”

Had Stalling borrowed the cash from a criminal source? Jackson glanced at Schak. He’d worked in the Vice and Financial Crimes units before joining Violent Crimes.

His partner took the cue. “Did Josh try to borrow from private lenders? Like the Grayson brothers?” The two men owned a restaurant and tavern in West Eugene and led a local motorcycle gang. One had been to prison for extortion, but the department had never nailed them on their loan shark operation.

“Josh didn’t mention it, but he was pretty desperate. He knew his sister wanted to sell.”

Had McCoy killed her brother just to get him out of her way? Stalling co-owned the property, and she would have needed him to sign off on a sale. If fifty grand was just a down payment, what was Matt Sheldon of Ganja Growers offering Ms. McCoy? And what other companies had made bids? “Did Josh talk about Ganja Growers?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Who wanted to buy Riverside Farms?”

“I don’t know.” Sigler rubbed his head. “I mean, I don’t remember. Josh may have mentioned names, but I didn’t take notes, you know?”

Jackson glanced down at his own notepad. He hadn’t written anything but
fifty grand
with
buy business
next to it. That might explain why Stalling had twenty grand under his floorboards. “Do you know Matt Sheldon?”

“No.”

“What about Shanna McCoy?”

“Yeah, I’ve met Josh’s sister, but we don’t hang out or anything.”

Jackson had about exhausted this line of questioning. One last effort. “Can you think of anything in Josh’s life, past or present, that would have pissed someone off enough to kill him?”

For a moment, Sigler was quiet. “His last girlfriend ended up hating him because of a stupid misunderstanding, but that was a year ago, and I can’t imagine her having a gun.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tiela Sheldon.”

“Any relation to Matt Sheldon?”

Sigler’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know.” A flash of shame. “I guess I didn’t know Josh as well as I thought.”

Jackson’s phone rang, and relief washed over him. He was ready to get the hell out of this room. The call was from Joe at the crime lab. Jackson stepped into the hall. “Hey, Joe, what have you got?”

“A ballistics report. It’s pretty interesting, and I want to show it to you in person.”