Dying for Justice (8 page)

Chapter 10

Earlier that day, Tuesday, September 7, 8:35 a.m.

Jackson parked in front of 2353 Emerald, turned off the engine, and drank his coffee. His car windows were down and the smell of dew-covered grass filled the morning air, reminding him of the lawn-mowing business he and his brother had operated in this neighborhood when they were kids. Two years older, Derrick had been bigger and stronger and always won when they wrestled for control of shared possessions. Yet Derrick had let him tag along on many adventures with his older friends. Careening down Greenhill Road on their bikes, jumping off the bridge near Fern Ridge—they were Jackson’s favorite childhood memories.

Derrick’s sedan was still in the driveway so his brother had to be home. It was time to barge in and confront him. This visit wasn’t about their estrangement. It was about finding their parents’ killer. Jackson climbed out of the car, and the sun warmed his back, promising the day would be another hot one.

He rang the doorbell once, then pounded loudly. “Derrick! I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

No response. Jackson shouted again, then looked for the ceramic frogs tucked into the ferns along the front window. He lifted the middle frog and found a key under it. Jackson tried the key in the door and it worked, so he entered the house. “Derrick, it’s Wade. We have to talk.”

A sour smell assaulted his nostrils. Spilled beer, Jackson guessed. He stepped out of the foyer into the living room. The shape of the walls was all he recognized of his childhood home. Beer cans littered the area around the couch and an empty Jack Daniels bottle stuck out between the cushions. Dirty plates covered the coffee table, with congealed food adding to the stink. Heavy blankets hung over the picture window, blocking out the light. To his left, dirty laundry and newspapers were piled on the kitchen table.

In his head, Jackson heard his father’s voice holler,
What in tarnation is going on here?

He strode down the hall, thinking his brother might still be in bed. “Derrick, are you here? We need to talk.” A cold wave of apprehension spread across his chest. What if Derrick slept with a gun and woke up drunk and mad? Jackson instinctively reached for his weapon, then just as quickly pulled back.

He pushed open the master bedroom door at the end of the hall and prepared to hit the ground. His brother was sleeping face-down on the bed, wearing only white boxers. Jackson shook the bed and shouted his brother’s name until Derrick rolled over.

“What the fuck?”

“Sorry to barge in, but I’ve been trying to contact you since Sunday.” Jackson stepped back to give the man space. “I’ll go put on some coffee.” Derrick muttered something as he left the room.

In the kitchen, a small garbage container overflowed onto the floor and fruit flies buzzed around two blackened bananas on the counter. Jackson found a can of coffee in the refrigerator and had to clear dishes out of the sink to access the faucet. He hadn’t known Derrick was drinking this heavily.
That’s because you haven’t called in ten years,
a guilty voice in his head countered.

He heard the shower running and it made him feel a little less bleak, but he wasn’t sure why. While the coffee brewed, he loaded the dishwasher and planned what he would say.

When Derrick entered the kitchen ten minutes later, they had a long moment of silence while Jackson poured coffee. He was pleased to see his brother’s clothes were clean, but he hadn’t shaved in days and his hair had grown to his shoulders.

“What do you want, Wade? After nearly eleven years?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you in all this time, but you didn’t call me either.”
Oh shit. Why had he said that?

“You told me not to, remember?”

“That was a long time ago and we’d been arguing. I didn’t mean it.”

“Why are you here now?”

“I’ve reopened our parents’ case.” Jackson looked around for somewhere to sit.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Hector Vargas contacted me and I went to see him. He says he took the money but didn’t kill them, so I’m starting over with the investigation.”

“Oh come on, the bastard confessed!” Derrick’s cobalt eyes blazed and his wide jaw tensed. They both had their mother’s features, only Derrick was blond and better looking.

“Vargas was abused and coerced into signing a confession. He’s dying of cancer and has nothing to gain by changing his story.”

Derrick rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m not ready for this.” He lurched to the table, grabbed the pile of dirty clothes, and tossed them through the laundry room door. They took seats on opposite sides of the table. Derrick gulped some coffee, then said, “You think you’ll find the real killer after all these years?”

“I’m going to try.”

Derrick shook his head. “Wade to the rescue. Do you always have to be such a goddamn boy scout?”

Jackson was taken aback. Derrick resented
him
? He started to respond, then caught himself. He was here as an investigator with a job to do. “I need to know about the time before the murders. Did you see Clark or Evelyn the day they died?”

“Clark or Evelyn? That’s cold, brother.”

“I’m trying to make this less emotional for both of us.”

“You can’t.” Derrick spit coffee as the words flew out of his mouth. “Our parents were shot dead in this house. People we called Mom and Dad, not some strangers named Clark and Evelyn. It is emotional, no matter how many years have passed.”

“This isn’t easy for me either. I had to look at the damn crime scene photos and stop at the lab to see the blood stains on Mom’s sweater. Now I need your help.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you see them the day they died?”

“I saw them that morning before I left for work. When I came home, the cops were here and they were dead.”

“You moved in here with them the day before they were murdered. Why?”

“My girlfriend and I had just broken up. I needed a place to stay.” Derrick got up, found a piece of bread, and wolfed it down. “To settle my stomach,” he said, sounding defensive.

“Who did Mom and Dad know that drove a dark blue sedan?”

“Seriously? You have a lead?”

“The Graysons saw a dark blue car parked near the house that day. Mr. Grayson saw it drive away after he heard the shots.”

Derrick rubbed his face again. “That was so long ago.”

“Think about it. Who did they hang out with?”

“They spent time with Dad’s friend from work, Charlie Bledsoe. He drove a black midsized car. Mom’s book club friend, Kathy, drove a blue minivan.” Derrick shook his head. “I only remember that because she was kind of hot and I helped her load some flowers into the back of the van once.”

“Had something changed recently for Mom and Dad? Did they seem worried about anything?”

“Mom always looked worried to me.” Derrick shrugged. “I had that effect on her.”

“What about financial concerns? Did they talk to you about anything specific?”

“They never talked about money. You know that.”

“The medical examiner found a hundred-dollar bill under Mom’s body.”

Derrick’s thick brows lifted. “We know Vargas took their cash box. He must have dropped some on the way out.”

“He says the box was locked and he smashed it open when he got home.”

“He’s a thief and probably a murderer too, so I don’t put much stock in anything he says.” Derrick gulped his coffee. “You got any aspirin? I ran out days ago.”

Jackson dug in his bag for a small bottle of naproxen, which he’d been taking since his surgery. “It’s not aspirin, but it should help.” He wanted to comment on the source of Derrick’s headache, but he wouldn’t risk alienating him. Not until he had what he’d come for.

“I need to look through Mom and Dad’s paperwork if you still have it.”

“It’s in the small bedroom that used to be yours.”

“You brought it in from the garage?”

Derrick gave him a half smile. “When Mona moved out, I brought all their stuff into the house just to be spiteful. Mona didn’t even want it in the garage. She kept bugging me to get rid of it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Jackson stood. “I’m sorry about your marriage. What happened?” Derrick and Mona had eloped to Vegas, so Jackson hadn’t even attended the wedding.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Derrick pushed up more slowly. “I heard you got divorced too.”

“Renee’s drinking became such a problem I had to kick her out. Worst day of my life.” His wife and daughter had cried and called him names as he packed Renee’s belongings. He wondered if Derrick’s wife had left him for the same reason.

Without commenting, his brother started down the hall. Jackson followed him to the small bedroom that had once been his. The room had been painted pink and turned into a sewing space long before his parents’ death, so Jackson was past being sentimental about it. Now it held a large set of weights and a pile of dusty boxes, all sealed with tape and labeled in his own handwriting. He dreaded this process, which would be both tedious and disturbing. He turned to Derrick. “Would you like to help?”

“Maybe in a minute. I have some things to do first.”

Jackson wondered why Derrick seemed to have Tuesday off. “Where are you working these days?”

“I’ve been unemployed for a year.” Derrick held out his hands in a gesture that said,
Look around here, idiot.
“Eugene has no middle-management jobs, or anything else, but I only recently quit looking.” Derrick abruptly walked out, leaving Jackson to face the memories alone.

Eventually, he would examine everything in the boxes, but he wanted to start with personal letters and the contents from his mother’s desk. She had been a hoarder who could never throw out anything she thought might be important. Derrick obviously had inherited that gene. Jackson found a box labeled
Letters
and used his utility knife to cut open the tape. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he pulled out bundled stacks of letters. Some dated back to his mother’s years in college. Others were from his various aunts. Many were Christmas cards only. Jackson remembered sitting in this house with Derrick, boxing up everything and hoping to cauterize the wound of their death. He had suggested they throw away the old letters and his brother had refused.

Starting with the most recent stack, he untied the blue ribbon holding the letters together and pulled the top one out of its envelope. It was from his Aunt Irene. Jackson skimmed it, thinking that reading incoming mail might be less revealing than reading his mother’s outgoing mail. Unless the killer had written to her. His parents had purchased a computer about three months before they died but neither had set up an email account. They claimed they bought the PC for shopping online and checking the news and weather in Missouri, his father’s home state.

After a half hour of skimming through family updates, Jackson stood to stretch his legs. Not only did it feel wrong to read personal information intended for his mother, it also seemed like a waste of time. He opened the bedroom window and sat back down with a box marked
Financial
. He decided to switch back and forth to keep from getting burnt out.

He’d seen some of the bank statements a week or so after the funeral. He and Derrick had consulted his parents’ lawyer and accessed their finances. They’d had less cash in the bank than Jackson expected. At the time, he’d felt guilty because they’d paid for two years of community college for him and later loaned him money to put Renee into a treatment program. They’d acted like they had plenty. Was that a façade or had they spent large sums on something else? Had someone been blackmailing them? Even more unthinkable, did one of them have a gambling problem? Either way, Jackson didn’t see why any of those circumstances would lead to murder. None of it made sense.

After an hour of reading through bank statements, IRA paperwork, and cancelled checks, Jackson had discovered nothing of significance. None of the cash withdrawals seemed large enough to be significant. He learned that his father wrote checks to the Mission and that his mother had given money regularly to Planned Parenthood. He would have to tell Kera that. She was a nurse at the local Planned Parenthood clinic and knew how important those donations were.

Jackson’s stomach grumbled, making him think it was time to get some lunch. Yet he felt like he had missed something. What would he be doing if this were a current case? Then it hit him. He would have subpoenaed the victims’ phone records in addition to their financial statements. Knowing his parents, they had kept all of their monthly bills for at least seven years. Jackson dug around until he found a box labeled
Bills
. He almost laughed out loud. He had tried to convince Derrick to throw all this away, and any normal person would have.

He cut open the box, found a bundled stack of phone bills dating back to January, 1993, then realized that landline phone statements back then didn’t include a detailed listing of every call going in and out, just the long distance calls.
Crap
. He wondered if Quest would still have the records and if the company would release them without a court order. It was worth a call. Jackson grabbed the box of personal letters and carried it out to the hall, planning to go through the rest that evening.

Derrick sat at a computer in the bedroom across the hall. A bottle of dark ale was open on the desk next to him. Jackson called out to his backside, “I’m taking some letters with me so I can look at them at home.”

Derrick spun around. “Why can’t you look at them here?”

“Because it’s a long and tedious task and I don’t want to spend my work hours doing it. I’ll bring the letters back, unless they become evidence in the case.”

“I know I have to let go of that stuff eventually, but it’s all I have of them.”

Except their house
, Jackson thought. “What do you have going on today?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought we might go out to lunch.”

“Now we’re going to be pals? Like the last ten years never happened?”