Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Jackson raced along River Road in his unmarked sedan, grateful for the midmorning lull in traffic. The dark sky threatened rain, and he hoped the scene was indoors. Most growers maintained year-round indoor crops with lights set on timers. The state had licensed only a handful of commercial nurseries since pot had been legalized by public referendum, but many of the medical marijuana growers, who’d been operating for nearly a decade, still opted for low-cost outdoor harvests. Not this time of year though. It was midwinter, so half of Eugene’s canopy of trees was bare and the sidewalks were empty. Not even the crazy cyclists were out today.

As he neared the turn onto River Loop 2, he remembered his lunch date. Earpiece in place, he called his girlfriend to cancel. “Hey, Kera. How’s your day?”

“A little crazy. The boys are both cranky and fighting over toys. I can’t wait to drop them off at preschool and have an adult conversation with you.”

Now he felt guilty for being the bearer of bad news. Kera got so few breaks from their toddlers. “I’m sorry, but there’s been a shooting, and I’m on my way to the scene now.”

A long moment of silence. “Who’s been shot?” she finally asked, her compassion kicking in.

“Two pot growers, but I don’t know what their status is.” He wanted to tell her about Lammers and his temporary leadership role but decided to wait. The extra responsibilities might mean overtime, and she didn’t need to hear that right now.

“Will you be able to pick up Benjie?” Kera asked. “Or should I just keep him overnight?” She’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a nurse to care for their two young boys until they were more emotionally stable. Micah, her grandchild, had been orphaned by the separate deaths of his parents, and Benjie was a toddler who’d bonded with Jackson at a crime scene. He’d bonded back and eventually won custody. Even though they didn’t look like they belonged together—with Benjie being blond and blue-eyed and Jackson having dark hair and eyes—people still smiled when they saw them together. Yet Kera had been the one to step up and become Benjie’s caregiver part-time.

“I’m not sure yet,” Jackson responded. “But I hope to make time to see him today.” The boy still got worried if Jackson was gone for too long. Benjie had witnessed his mother’s murder, then spent the night alone in the crawl space under their house. Jackson took him to a therapist twice a month, and the boy had recently had a breakthrough. Jackson’s teenage daughter also saw a therapist regularly, and the thought gave him another stab of guilt. He was directly responsible for that issue.

“I’ll miss seeing you, but I’ve got a couple of rental houses to look at, so it’ll be a productive afternoon.” Kera laughed. “Then I’ll take a long-overdue nap.”

“Sleep a few extra minutes for me too.” Jackson made his turn and started looking for property numbers. “I have to go.”

“I know. See you later.” She hung up, letting him off the hook without an affectionate good-bye. She probably thought he had another detective with him.

He drove a mile, past suburbia-style homes on traditional lots. As the landscape changed to older rural homes with acreage, he spotted a group of patrol cars clustered in front of a tall white farmhouse. An ambulance sat in the entrance to the driveway.

Jackson pulled off behind a dark-blue SUV—one of the new patrol vehicles that would eventually replace all the Impalas—and stepped out. Two more old-style patrol units sat along the road, while a red Nissan pickup and a white Honda—the victims’ cars?—filled the driveway. Two officers stood on the front porch, and another walked along the road toward the next home, which was at least two hundred yards away. A plum orchard took up the long space across the street.
Probably no witnesses,
Jackson thought as he climbed out.

Behind the farmhouse, a new streamlined building stretched to the back of the property. Vents in the roof leaked a pungent, almost skunk-like smell of marijuana plants. How far did the aroma drift? Small medical-marijuana grow operations in denser neighborhoods had already generated complaints about the smell. The state, as well as city councils, would be tweaking regulations for years—until the complexities were ironed out.

Jackson approached the officers, who greeted him by name.

“Anything I need to know before I go in?” he asked.

“The shooting took place in the grow room out back,” one officer said. “A man and a woman. No one’s in the house in front, and there’s no sign of a disturbance there.”

The loud crunch of footsteps on gravel caught his attention, and Jackson turned. Paramedics rounded the corner of the house, carrying what looked like a small woman on a sling gurney. Jackson moved toward the back of the ambulance, hoping to see the victim as they loaded her, maybe even ask a question.

“Is she conscious?” he called as they approached.

“She wasn’t when we arrived, but we stemmed the bleeding and she’s more responsive now.”

Jackson held up his hand. “Give me ten seconds.”

The paramedics transferred the victim to the wheeled gurney they’d left behind because of the gravel path. The one nearest him said, “She’s still critical, so make it five.”

Jackson moved toward her, noting the woman was in her late twenties, with bottle-blonde hair and dark roots. Her pink T-shirt was soaked with blood, her face was ashen, and her eyes were closed. He hoped Schak had already taken photos of the victim where she’d been shot. “Miss? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Who did this? Do you know the shooter?”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

Jackson leaned in. “Try again. We want to arrest the bastard.”

“Old man.” The words came out in a breathy whisper.

Which old man?
“What’s his name?”

The victim didn’t respond.

“Time’s up.” The lead paramedic pushed the gurney onto the lift, then turned to Jackson. “I think the bullet nicked her liver, and she’s lucky to be alive. We’re taking her to North McKenzie.”

Jackson stepped back and said a quick prayer for the woman as they loaded her into the ambulance. She might still have a long life ahead. He hurried around the side of the house where the paramedics had come from. Before the day was over, he would probably search every drawer and closet in the home, but he needed to see the crime scene. As he crunched along the gravel path, he glanced down, watching for evidence the perp may have dropped. Had the shooter even taken this route? The perp could have gone directly into the house, then when he didn’t find the targets, out the back door to the nursery. Jackson would have the forensics team photograph any footprints in the entryway of the home and dust for fingerprints, but without witnesses, they might never know exactly what happened.

The metal building came into view, and a moment later, he spotted the covered walkway between the back porch of the farmhouse and the nursery. The structure was so new, the single window in the front still had a sticker on it. The door stood open, and he spotted Schak inside, kneeling on the floor. Jackson pulled on paper booties and latex gloves, then entered the grow room. The toxic mix of pot plants and fertilizer made his eyes water. Remembering that all smells were particulate, he pulled a paper face mask from his bag and slipped it on too.

Lined up in neat rows, the lush six-foot-tall plants glistened with ripening buds under bright lights. A drip watering system snaked through the long, narrow room. How much had they invested in the business? It hardly mattered. They’d probably earned it back already. Jackson stepped toward Schak and the body on the cement floor. The victim lay in front of a counter—a tall wood platform partially covered with little plants in plastic cups. A shop light hung low over the starts.

Schak stood, making a quiet groaning sound. “Two shots. One in the chest and one in the stomach. The female victim only had one.”

“Where was the shooter?”

“Near the door. I collected three shell casings, so he missed once. We need to find the bullet.”

Jackson glanced back at the entry. Less than twenty feet away. “Did you get pictures of footprints at the entrance?”

“Better yet, I carried the plastic mat to my car. I’ll take it to the evidence lab this afternoon.”

“Excellent.” This was why he loved working with Schak. His partner had handled every kind of scene and could be methodical even when surrounded by paramedics, bleeding victims, and general chaos. “What about the woman? Where was she?”

“About three feet away.” Schak pointed at a puddle of blood that was slowly oozing past a pot plant toward a drain in the center of the room. “She was slumped against the counter. My guess is that she was shot after the guy.”

“Any identification?”

With gloved hands, Schak handed him a wallet. “Josh Stalling, age thirty-eight. The woman didn’t have any ID on her.”

“Did you call in his name? Is there an arrest warrant or any criminal charges pending against him?”

“A shit-ton of drug and theft charges from a decade ago. But nothing recent.”

He’d either cleaned up his act or gotten better at concealing his crimes. “He’s probably not the licensed grower then.” The victim probably wasn’t even a registered employee of the pot business. The new regulations didn’t allow ex-convicts to grow marijuana, but people always got around the system.

“Maybe the woman’s ID is in a purse in the house. If she lived here,” Schak offered.

“There are two cars in the driveway, so maybe she did.” Those vehicles would be towed to the evidence bay and processed. But what was the motive here? Money? Did they keep cash in the grow area? “Have you looked at the rest of the room?”

“No, I’ve been taking photos and gathering the obvious evidence.”

“Okay. I’ll search in a moment.” Jackson moved closer to the body.

“I rolled him over so I could see his face and remove the wallet from his front pocket,” Schak said. “Gunderson will just have to get over it.”

The medical examiner preferred they didn’t touch the corpse, but sometimes the ME didn’t arrive until an hour after they did, and they needed the victim’s name right away. Jackson squatted down. For a moment, he considered the man’s passing and how hard it would be for his family, no matter what kind of criminal past he’d had. Justice would be as important to them as it was for any other family, and his team would work just as hard to solve this one.

Jackson took five quick photos, wanting to have his own set in case he worked at home. The victim, dressed in jeans and a now-bloody white T-shirt, was about five-nine and overweight. His mouth and eyes were open, as if he’d died midsentence. A well-trimmed goatee covered the bottom half of his face, but the hair on his head had been shaved recently, leaving a dark stubble. Jackson picked up one of the victim’s hands and scanned his callused, stained skin. A smoker who’d worked with his hands.

“No defensive wounds,” Schak said. “I think the killer caught them unaware.”

“What about the entry? Did the shooter just walk in?”

“It was unlatched when I arrived, and I didn’t see any signs of damage.”

Wouldn’t pot growers have been paranoid enough to lock the door, even when they were inside the room? “We need to find out who called 911. They obviously fled the scene.”

The door opened, and a cold wind blew past. They both looked up to see Detective Evans walk into the nursery. Average height for a woman, but that was all that was average about her. She was so physically fit, she was only the second woman ever to qualify for the SWAT unit. But Evans’ heart-shaped face was so sweet, the men she took down—when necessary—never saw it coming. And her sharp mind was often the first to connect various elements and see the big picture of the case they were working.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was out in Springfield, tracking down a witness to that apartment shooting.” In that case, they’d arrested the killer at the scene, but other perps involved—obviously smarter than the one they’d caught—had fled. They still had to convict the killer in court.

“We’re just getting started,” Jackson said. “No one’s been inside the house yet, so why don’t you start there? We still need the female victim’s ID.” The first patrol officer on the scene had probably cleared the house, just to make sure the perp wasn’t hiding somewhere, but now they had to piece together the who and why. “As they loaded her into the ambulance, I asked the woman who shot her, and she said, ‘Old man.’ So let’s keep that in mind.”

“Then we’ll have to question her father,” Evans said.

Jackson hadn’t even thought of that meaning. “Right. As well as the neighbors. This could have been a dispute about the grow operation and/or the pungent exhaust.” Jackson pointed at his mask. “I would put one on if you plan to be in here long.”

“I’ll head into the house and let you handle the stink pit.” Evans grinned and walked out.

Jackson turned to Schak. “You should wear one too.”

“I’ll just step out for a minute.” His partner gave a crooked smile. “I didn’t think you could get high from inhaling pot fumes, but I’m feeling a little weird.” He hurried out the door.

“Deep breaths, pal.” Jackson decided to expedite his search. The technicians would be there soon, and they had better masks, the kind that actually filtered the air.