Dying for Justice (3 page)

Chapter 4

Earlier that morning, Monday, September 6, 5:15 a.m.

Jackson slammed off the alarm and bolted from bed
.
He wanted to get to the department early and read the old case file before his workday officially started. He skipped his morning run, showered, and made a half pot of coffee. Travel mug in hand, he went back to the bedroom and strapped on his Sig Sauer, then kissed his sleeping daughter on the forehead. He would have liked to see Katie walk out the door on her first day of high school, but she probably preferred that he didn’t, so it was okay, he told himself. She’d been getting herself up and ready for years. Having an alcoholic mother and a workaholic dad gave kids an early sense of responsibility.

Just before he headed out, Jackson remembered to take his prednisone. In theory, the drug was shrinking the fibrous growth around his aorta. In practice, it produced mood swings and ten extra pounds, but he could live with that. Other people with retroperitoneal fibrosis had chronic pain and many ended up with colostomy bags. His doctors said he was lucky, and Jackson, still only forty-two, was grateful his kidneys had been spared. Since the surgery to free his ureters from the growth, he’d been practicing gratitude for almost everything.

Just as the sun was coming up, he climbed in his city-issued cruiser and backed out of the driveway.

The violent crimes unit occupied a narrow space crammed with desks, filing cabinets, stacked boxes, and assorted personal items like the team’s bowling trophy and Rob Schakowski’s Buzz Lightyear toy. At this early hour, the room was empty. Jackson passed Ed McCray’s old desk and realized he hadn’t called him since he retired in June. His good friend and long-time partner had taken a bullet in their last big homicide case and McCray’s wife had called “enough.” Jackson both envied and pitied his friend. To be free of the job and its on-call, sometimes round-the-clock, bonds seemed like a gift. Yet without an investigation going, Jackson wouldn’t know who he was.

He turned on his computer and glanced at the two case files on his desk. They were all but wrapped up, with the perps in custody and the DA pushing for plea bargains. He hoped Lammers wouldn’t assign him anything new until he’d had a chance to dig into his parents’ case.

Jackson went in search of the administrative aide. She had the keys to the storage area for adjudicated cases and would have to document what he checked out. If the case had still been open, the file would be in a box in a room at the end of the hall, along with dozens of other boxes just like it. They tried to keep open cases handy to work on whenever they had downtime. They hadn’t had any downtime in months.

He found the admin aide in the break room, yawning and pouring coffee.

“Hey, Nikki. I need to check out a file from the year 2000. Can you help me?”

“Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it to you a little later.”

“I’d like us to go get it now.”

She looked surprised but put a lid on her coffee and started for the stairs. In the basement, she unlocked a steel door and clicked on the overhead light. They stepped into a long musty room crammed with filing cabinets.

“What month and what name?” Nikki asked.

“September. The homicide of Evelyn and Clark Jackson.”

Nikki’s eyes widened. “Your parents?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched his arm, yawned again. “Wait here. You’re not supposed to actually be in here.”

Jackson was glad to stay near the open door. After a good ten minutes, Nikki returned with a large brown pocket folder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Back at his desk, Jackson sipped his coffee and stared at the file. Was he ready to rip open the past and relive that horrible day? He’d been on patrol and they’d called him into the department. His sergeant had broken the news to him in small chunks.
There’s been a shooting and two people are dead. We believe they’re related to you. Do your parents live on Emerald Street?

Glad to be alone, Jackson sucked in a deep breath and pulled out a stack of papers with two manila folders underneath. A standard form lay on top of the pile. He began to read:
September 23, Evelyn and Clark Jackson, found dead of bullet wounds at 2353 Emerald Street. Patrol officers responded to an anonymous tip about a handyman fleeing the house
. The information surprised Jackson. He’d never had access to the case details before. They’d picked up Hector Vargas within hours of the crime and Jackson had never had reason to question the chain of events. Now Vargas claimed Jackson’s parents weren’t home when he left their house with the money. If he was telling the truth, the murders hadn’t happened at that point. Who had called in the tip about seeing Vargas leave the house? And why? Jackson noted the time listed for the call: 4:25 p.m. Something was not right about the tip.

He opened a Word document and started his own file of notes and questions, then went back to the case paperwork. The manila folder held plastic sheets with encased pictures. Jackson dreaded seeing them. Yet how could he work the case without looking at the crime scene photos? After eleven years, he still wasn’t ready. At the funeral, he’d paid his respects and looked in the open caskets. His parents had appeared whole and peaceful and that’s how he wanted to remember them.

He picked up a small notepad similar to the one he carried and read Bekker’s personal notes. The abbreviations and sloppy handwriting made it challenging, but Jackson gleaned that the victims had been found in the living room: two shots in the male body, both in the torso, and one bullet through the female’s forehead. A coffee table had been overturned, indicating a struggle. Both victims were wearing outer clothing, as if they had just come in or were preparing to leave.

Page two contained a list of the evidence Bekker had bagged and tagged: a cigarette butt from the driveway, a hundred-dollar bill, and a strand of hair from the female’s sweater that was visibly lighter than the victim’s dark hair. The notation of the money surprised him. Had it come from his parents’ cash box? Jackson hoped the technicians had gathered more physical evidence than what was listed.

He flipped ahead, realizing only five pages had been filled in. Either Bekker hadn’t conducted much of an investigation or he wasn’t much of a note taker. Bekker had talked to the woman who lived next door, Rose Harmon, and she reported that a handyman had been working at the house that day. She also denied being the person who’d called in about seeing him. Jackson hoped she still lived next door but he wasn’t counting on it. Finding witnesses who remembered any kind of detail would be challenging.

He flipped through until he found copies of the autopsies. The medical jargon in the report made for slow reading, which was why he always attended the posts of the cases he worked. The information was easier to process when he was looking at the body and listening to the pathologist. In this case, the gunshot residue indicated his father had been shot at close range. The bullets had gone through his chest, and the technicians had dug both out of the couch. His mother had been killed at a range of five to seven feet and the bullet had lodged in her brain. Neither had defense wounds on their hands or foreign DNA under their fingernails, but his father’s body had an abdominal bruise consistent with a fist punch. Both had died around four o’clock in the afternoon.

A tremor ran through Jackson’s chest. He pushed back from his desk and went outside for fresh air. The sun had warmed the morning air and the streets and sidewalks were filling with cars, bicycles, transients, and oddly dressed young people. He loved Eugene, cultural diversity and all. Sometimes it bothered him that he had never moved away or experienced another part of the country, but his parents had been proud Oregonians who never considered living anywhere else, and he’d grown up feeling that way too. They’d chosen Eugene to raise their family and so had he. God, he missed them.

Jackson considered a trip to Full City Coffee for a pastry, then thought better of it. Back at his desk, he read the ballistics report: .22 slug, partially flattened, with lands and grooves consistent with a Jennings. All of which meant little, since they had never found the handgun. He read a brief typed confession signed by Hector Vargas. Jackson wondered if they had a taped version, and if so, where it was. Back in 2000, the interrogation room had not yet been wired for video. Santori and Bekker had felt free to abuse Vargas as they pleased in the windowless space. Other officers had to have known or at least suspected what was going on. Jackson was ashamed of them all.

He felt around in the bottom of the pocket folder, hoping to find a cassette tape, but it wasn’t there. He made a mental note to visit the crime lab at some point and look at the physical evidence, which should have been stored.

“Hey, Jackson.” Rob Schakowski, another detective and occasional fishing buddy, wandered up looking sleepy. He noted Jackson’s two coffee containers. “Why the hell did you come in so early on Monday?” Schak’s buzz cut and barrel-shaped torso made him look mean but Jackson knew better.

“It’s a long story. Better grab some coffee.”

When Schak returned with a styrofoam cup of crappy house brew, Jackson spoke softly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “Hector Vargas wrote me a letter, asking me to come see him.” Jackson paused to see if Schak knew the name.

His partner raised an eyebrow. “What did the bastard want?”

“He said he was innocent and wanted me to know the truth before he died. I visited the prison yesterday.” Jackson leaned in and lowered his voice again. “This is strictly confidential. Vargas said Santori and Bekker abused him until he confessed. He has scars from where he claims Bekker burned him with a cigarette.”

A chain of reactions played out on Schak’s face. He settled on dead serious. “You believe him. You’re looking at your parents’ file.”

“I have to.”

“Does Lammers know?”

“Not yet.”

“You know I’m on board. I’ll do whatever I can, even on my own time.”

“I appreciate that. For now, I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Lammers may want to hand it over to internal affairs.” Schak’s eyes went wide. “Shit. Santori is IA now.”

“It’s a sticky one.”

“Did you find anything irregular in the file?”

“A few quirks. I hope to question some witnesses today.”

“Here comes the boss.” Schak scooted over to his own desk.

Sergeant Lammers strode up, making Jackson feel smaller than his six-foot, two-hundred pounds. She was the same size, only more so. Lammers projected a force field that somehow diminished everyone around her.

“Good morning, Jackson.”

He braced himself. “Morning, Sergeant. Did you have a good weekend?”

“Not really. I got two calls yesterday, both very strange cases.” She waved a sheet of notebook paper and gave him a closed-mouth smile. “This one is special and has your name all over it.”

He waited her out.

“Dispatch informs me a guy called in and said he found a dead body in the laundry room at his apartment complex. I took an unrelated call immediately after. I was on the phone maybe five minutes.” Lammers nodded, her short hair and wide face stiff as ever. “Before I could make a move, dispatch called again. The laundry guy had called back and claimed the body was gone. He’d gone out for a smoke to calm his nerves and when he came back in, the body wasn’t there.”

“Oh joy.” Jackson grabbed the yellow note out of her hand. “My guess is he was never dead.”

“Good luck.” Lammers headed toward Evans with a second sheet of notepaper.

Jackson was glad to have a reason to get out. With any luck, he’d wrap up the disappearing corpse case in record time, then make a stop in his old neighborhood

Chapter 5

Monday, September 6, 11:25 a.m.

On the way back from her interview with Gina, Evans drove through Glenwood, a ramshackle strip of industrial businesses and low-rent houses between Eugene and Springfield. She cursed at every stupid driver who crossed her path. What a FUBAR this case was. No crime scene to investigate, no fresh witnesses, a victim who couldn’t stay awake to answer questions, and—the frosting on this shit cake—the main suspect was a cop.

What the hell was she supposed to do? If Bekker were just a citizen, her first step would be to bring him in for questioning. But he was a patrol sergeant who had once worked as a detective. He’d never been her supervisor but she’d heard rumors that he was a jackass. As a cop, Bekker knew how the system worked and would not willingly answer questions. Tipping him off that he was under suspicion would likely backfire as well. Evans wanted to hand the case back to Sergeant Lammers and say:
Sorry, I can’t handle this
. But she wouldn’t admit that out loud even if she were tortured. Being thirty-two and female, she was already considered the weak link in the unit.

Evans understood that she had to craft a plan and handle the case carefully. At some point, she would have to tell Lammers that her suspect was a Eugene police sergeant, but not yet. Lammers might take the case away from her and Evans couldn’t let that happen either.

She stopped at Carl’s Jr., then wolfed down a cheeseburger as she drove to headquarters. She would have to run five miles after work to still weigh 129 in the morning, but that was okay. She did her best thinking while running and for now, her full belly eased her tension. Evans decided to give herself twenty-four hours to work the case and find out what she could—before she told Lammers anything. It was possible Gina had not really been attacked. She could have taken an overdose of medication, then blamed her ex just for revenge. Gina claimed the attacker had grabbed her neck. Had the ER doctors examined Gina’s body for bruises? Would her medical chart from that night still exist somewhere?

Evans pulled into the underground parking lot and shut off her car. Even with the air conditioning on, she’d managed to work up a sweat. Would anyone notice? She headed upstairs, thinking about Gina’s insinuations. She’d called Bekker a predator and implied he used his authority as a cop to intimidate women into having sex with him.
Could it be true
?

“Hey, Evans. How did the coma interview go?” Lammers lurked near her desk as she entered the violent crimes area.

“It was fine until she fell asleep. I’m going back later to try again.” Evans dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and headed for the bathroom, hoping Lammers would go away.

“Is she credible?” the sergeant called after her.

“Yes.” Evans hurried down the hall and into the women’s restroom. She glanced in the mirror and frowned. Her short hair—medium copper brown from L’Oréal—had gone limp and her face had a moist sheen. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She was on the job and being pretty just got in the way. She wiped her armpits with a wet paper towel and hurried back to her desk.

Evans keyed Gary Bekker into the employee database to get a look at his career path. He’d worked as a vice detective for six years, and before that, he’d trained as a detective in the violent crimes division for a year, just as she was doing now. Evans studied his photograph, assuming it was probably a few years old. Military-short, light-brown receding hair, cold blue eyes, and a wide jaw that made up for his disappearing chin. She’d seen him in passing, but he’d been promoted to patrol sergeant around the time she’d transferred into the violent crimes unit. They had never worked in the same department at the same time.

Only a limited amount of information was available to her, but she now knew Bekker’s address and phone number. She needed a look at his employment records to see if he had any registered complaints or department citations. Would Lammers have access to that file and would she share the information?

Evans wasn’t ready to take that step. Who in the department would have known Bekker when he was a vice detective? That had to be when Bekker had contact with hookers and drug addicts. Jackson of course would know him, but Jackson had only worked vice for a short while. She thought of Ed McCray, who had just retired after thirty years in the department. He’d been a detective for half of it, including a stint in vice. Evans felt guilty for even thinking of pumping McCray for information. His timely retirement a few months ago had kept her from losing her job to a cost-cutting staff reduction. She owed McCray a favor, not the other way around. Still, she had to call him and find out what she could.

First, she had to read the file for the original incident. Evans opened the database for patrol reports and keyed in Gina Stahl. A file dated August 3, 2009, appeared on the screen. Evans scanned the details: Officer Keith Markham had responded to a 911 call about an unconscious woman at the Riverside Terrace. Gina’s neighbor had come over to visit and found her unconscious. The neighbor had described Gina as
overdosed
. Markham had labeled the incident as an
attempted suicide
.

Evans printed the report and wondered if Markham was still working patrol. She wanted to ask him a few questions but she had to be careful. If Markham knew who Gina was, he might go straight to Bekker and tell him that the incident was being investigated.

Evans froze in front of the printer. Did Bekker know his ex-wife had come out of her coma? If he’d tried to kill her two years ago, would he try again now?

At her desk, she called Rosehill and asked to speak to Jeri Richmond, Gina’s nurse.

“I’m sorry, but she’s too busy to come to the phone.”

“This is important police business. Go get her.”

After a long wait, Jeri came on the line. “Yes?”

“This is Detective Evans. I need to know who was notified of Gina’s awakening.”

“Just her parents.”

“Is it possible anyone called her ex-husband?”

“No.”

“I’d like the facility to take extra steps to protect Gina. She claims to be the victim of attempted homicide.”

“We’re doing what we can.” The nurse sounded more impatient with each response.

“What does that mean?”

“Someone checks on her every fifteen minutes. And the front doors are locked, so no one gets in without being screened.”

“Thank you.” Evans hung up. She would ask Lammers for a patrol officer to guard Gina, but she knew what the answer would be. Their budget had been stripped to the bare bones and officers had been laid off. She would have to work quickly and arrest Bekker before he learned of his ex-wife’s recovery.

Evans called McCray, hoping to get a feel for whether Bekker had any real friends in the department who would protect him. If he was a predator, he was an asshole and had probably alienated a few people. Still, he was a cop and the brotherhood always closed ranks.

McCray didn’t answer so she left him a message, asking to meet for coffee to talk about an old case. Next, she found Gina’s parents in the citizen database and gave them a call. A female voice offered a soft hello.

Evans introduced herself. “Are you Sharon Stahl?”

“Yes. Did you say Laura?”

“Actually, it’s Lara, but it doesn’t matter. I’m calling about your daughter, Gina. I’m investigating her assault and I’d like to talk to you and your husband as soon as possible.”

“It’s about time.” The mother’s voice broke and she paused to compose herself. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t directed at you.”

“It’s okay. Can I stop by your house now?”

“Please do. I’ll call George and ask him to come home. The old fool is out golfing in this heat.”

The Stahls lived in an attractive mobile home in a seniors-only park in west Eugene. Ducks wandered across the well-groomed front yard as Evans got out of her car. She blinked in the bright sun and headed up the driveway. Sharon Stahl opened the door and Evans thought:
She doesn’t look seventy-seven.
The woman was tall and lean and still had a straight spine. Both her knees were covered with large gauze bandages.

“I just had my knees replaced,” she said with a chuckle. “I wore ‘em out power walking through my sixties.”

Evans offered her hand and Sharon affectionately squeezed it between both of hers. “Come in. Would you like something cold to drink? Ice tea or lemonade?”

“Just ice water please.” Evans was already over her calorie quota for the day.

The home was spacious and immaculately clean. It was the first time Evans had been inside a mobile home that didn’t disgust her. Compared to the shit-pile trailer she’d grown up in, this home was so upscale it was shameful for the two dwellings to share a name.

After a minute, George Stahl ambled into the room, looking a little less preserved than his wife. He had rounded shoulders, a small potbelly, and a lot of neck sag. The couple sat together on the forest green couch and held hands. The gesture surprised Evans.

“Our Gina woke up,” Sharon said, beaming. “We always believed she would. When she spoke to me yesterday, I thought my heart would burst.”

“That must have been amazing.” Evans could not imagine the feeling. She had no children, no real emotional connection to anyone…except Jackson. “What did the doctors say at the time she was admitted?”

“They were conflicted. One said she would never wake up and wanted us to remove her feeding tube after three weeks. But Dr. Bremer said she had brain activity and suggested we put her into a long-term care facility and talk to her every day. So we did.”

“We did more than that,” George said, a little gruff.

“Yes, and it was all worth it. Our Gina is back.”

Evans hated to spoil the mood but she had to get to the heart of her visit. “Gina said her ex-husband tried to kill her, which is why I’m here. First, I’d like to know about her history. She had Valium and Demerol in her bloodstream when she was admitted. Did Gina have prescriptions for either drug?”

“She had one for Valium,” Sharon said quickly. “But she only took it on occasion. Gina had filed for divorce and was under a lot of stress.”

“What about the Demerol. Was it hers?”

“I don’t think so. Where would she get Demerol?”

“The neighbor who called 911 reported the incident as an overdose.”

“I’m sure that’s what it looked like,” Sharon said. “But we’re convinced Gary gave Gina the drugs to make it seem like she committed suicide.”

“Was Gina depressed?”

“She was going through a divorce and having a tough time, but she didn’t try to kill herself.” Sharon raised her voice in defensiveness.

“Did you tell the police you thought her ex-husband tried to kill her?”

“Of course, but it was a waste of time. Gary is a police officer. Another cop gave him an alibi and the department didn’t even investigate.”

George spoke up. “I find it hard to believe a cop would lie to cover up an attempted homicide, but nothing else makes sense. Gina had no enemies.”

Evans appreciated his vote of confidence but he was completely naïve about the brotherhood. “Who did you talk to when you contacted the police?”

“Detective Rick Santori in internal affairs, but he said there was no case.”

“What is the name of the cop who gave Bekker an alibi?”

George shook his head, but Sharon got up, moving slowly to protect her bandaged knees. “I think I still have some notes I made at the time.”

“Gina mentioned a notebook. She said to ask you about it.”

The old couple looked blank. “What kind of notebook?”

“I’m not sure.” Evans stood as well. “Gina said she had been collecting evidence against her ex-husband. Did she tell you about that?”

Sharon’s face and mouth tightened. “At first, Gina just thought he was cheating. Then she started to believe Gary was forcing himself on those women by threatening to put them in jail.”

Evans fought to control her disgust. “Did she tell you how she came to that conclusion?”

“Gina followed Gary and caught him visiting other women. She finally worked up the nerve and talked to one of them. It was a shameful story.”

Evans followed Sharon down a hall lined with pictures of Gina at various ages. “Did you tell internal affairs about the allegations of Gary’s sexual abuse?”

“I tried, but the detective cut me off. He said Gina was bitter and making up stuff, like people going through a divorce often to do.”

Evans didn’t know Detective Santori personally, but she thought he sounded like an asshole too. He was IA, so it went with the territory.

They entered a small bedroom that looked more like a storage unit than a living space.

“We packed up Gina’s belongings and brought them here. Except most of her furniture. We kept it in a storage unit for a year, then finally decided it was costing too much. We had to close out her shop too.”

“What shop?”

“Gina is a fashion artist. She makes the most beautiful clothing.” Sharon shoved boxes around until she had the one she wanted. She pulled out a long piece of purple velvet for Evans to see. A leaf pattern had been etched in the fabric.

“It’s very pretty.” It wasn’t Evans style, but she could see why women would be attracted to it.

“Her clothes made women feel like goddesses. Some of her clients were movie stars.”

“Do you think you could find the notebook?”

Sharon sighed, put the fabric back, and dug through a box labeled
Desk Papers
. “If she had a notebook, it’s probably in here.”

“Was Bekker ever violent with Gina?”

“I don’t think so, but he was cruel in other ways.” Sharon kept digging, setting aside a stack of unopened mail and a stack of bank statements. “He made her feel bad about putting on a few pounds and he resented her for not wanting to have a child.”

Evans was starting to hate Bekker and wondered how Gina had ever become involved with him.

As if reading her mind, Sharon said, “Gary could be very charming. They met at a Special Olympics fundraiser. I liked him at first too.” Sharon found a small red notebook with spiral binding. “Maybe this is it.” Pulling her glasses up to her face from where they’d been hanging on her chest, Sharon read from the first page. “June 13, 2009, 7:45 p.m. Gary stopped at the Courtyard Apartments, 623 W. 4th, and entered unit five. He stayed until 9:10 p.m. The apartment belongs to Trisha Cronin.”