Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (13 page)

“I understand.”

He couldn’t talk about his case either. They ate mostly in silence except for Kera’s chat about baby Micah. For the first time, Jackson wondered how much his job, his silence, had contributed to his ex-wife’s drinking problem.

Later at the department, Jackson escorted his still-somewhat-groggy suspect from the big room with the soft brown couch to the cramped interrogation space with the scarred table, gray walls, and harsh lighting. The walls had once been pale pink as an emasculating effect on suspects, but it had bothered some detectives enough that they repainted. Jackson didn’t care about the color; it was the eight-foot space that made him jumpy after a half an hour.

He considered uncuffing Shane, then changed his mind. The young man was built like his father, with broad shoulders and big bones. If Shane had never been a drug user, he’d probably weigh more than Jackson. Instead he looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Still, he was their prime suspect in a triple homicide, and it was enough to make Jackson uneasy.

“We’re recording this interview. Please state your name.”

“Shane Compton.”

“Shane, are you coherent enough to talk to me?” Jackson said for the camera.

“Yes. I told you, I’m sick, not high.” He looked around as if he just realized where he was. “Why am I here? They usually just take me to jail.”

“You’re here to answer questions about Sunday, May 30th. Where were you that night?”

“May? How am I supposed to remember?” His speech was slow and soft, like someone sleepwalking.

“It was two days ago.”

“Oh. Sunday.” His forehead creased for a moment, then he broke into a shy smile. With his blond hair, big green eyes, and prominent cheekbones, Jackson realized Shane was probably what his daughter would call a hottie. “I was with a friend,” Shane said. “We drove to Corvallis and didn’t get back until midnight.”

“Why Corvallis? You couldn’t find any heroin here in Eugene?”

“We went to see a friend about a job.”

“I need names.”

“Aaron Priest is the guy who drove. I don’t know the guy we went to see. He’s Aaron’s friend.

“This is important, Shane. Three people were killed Sunday night and we think you did it.”

His smile was gone in a blink and his head fell forward. “Don’t say that. I love my cousins. I love Aunt Carla. She’s like a second mom to me.”

“Sometimes people get mad at their family. It happens to all of us.” Jackson used his soft, empathetic voice. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

Shane began to weep. Tears rolled down his face and his body shook, but he made no sound. “Everything is so fucked up.”

A month earlier, May 3

The clinic opened at five but Shane had never made it in that early, even when he’d been working. This morning he’d shown up around eight and people were waiting on the big porch outside. Shane squeezed past into the lobby and signed in. He wished he could go outside and smoke while he waited, but they had rules about not smoking on the property, not leaving the property after you signed in, and how long you could loiter after you dosed. Recovery Health had rules about everything!

He leaned against a yellow wall and waited in the small funky lobby with the other addicts. The clinic was on the corner of 6th and Jefferson in an older house that had been converted into a medical space. They hadn’t done much. The rooms were still small with low ceilings and you had to climb the narrow stairs to see the counselors.

Shane didn’t care. He loved coming here and getting his dose. He felt better the moment he swallowed the pink liquid, knowing it would take the edge off and he would make it through the day without using heroin. He even enjoyed the one-on-one sessions with Dr. Hunt, where they talked about his future. Shane loved having a future to look forward to. He loved being able to imagine his life five years from now. He visualized a nice little house in his parents’ neighborhood with a wife and a baby son to take care of. The weekly group sessions had grown old, but even those helped keep him grounded. He was moving forward with his life, finally. Or he had been until Country Coach laid him off.

The nurse called his name and Shane started for one of the dosing rooms. “You have to see admin this morning,” she said, pointing down the hall, avoiding his eyes.

“Okay, Alice.” He smiled as he passed. She was a good person. Everyone who worked here was a good person.

The door was open so Shane waltzed through. “Good morning, Mary.”

“Hello, Shane. How are you?”

“Not bad. What’s up?”

“It’s May 3rd. Your payment was due on Wednesday. Do you have the money?”

“I have forty dollars.” Shane pulled the two twenties he’d borrowed from Damon out of his pocket and handed them to her. Even the paperwork people wore latex gloves.

“This doesn’t even cover what you owe for last month.” Mary glanced at her computer monitor. “You still owe $55 for April and now $265 for May. We can’t dose you until you pay.”

Panic flooded his body. He could not walk out of here without his dose. “I can get the money. I just need some time.” Shane gave her his most charming smile.

“I’m sorry, but that isn’t how it works. You know because we were very clear when you were screened and accepted. We are not a charity. We try to be compassionate and flexible, but considering our clientele, we have to be firm.”

“You can’t just cut me off. You know what it’s like.” His heart raced and he fought the urge to yell. “The pain will kill me. I’ll be too sick to look for work. ”

Mary pressed her lips together. “I sympathize, but there’s nothing I can do. You have to be financially responsible for your treatment.”

“You know I lost my job. I’d only been working at Country Coach for six months, and my unemployment checks are $74 a week. If I don’t pay my probation fees, I’ll go back to jail.”

“Can your parents help you out for a while?”

Shane shook his head. His parents had paid for the methadone for the whole first year he was enrolled in the clinic. They’d told him up front that was all they would commit to. They wanted him to get off the stuff and kept pressuring him to start on a withdrawal schedule. His doctor at the clinic thought it was too soon. Dr. Hunt said the longer he stayed on methadone, the less likely he was to relapse. Shane trusted Dr. Hunt because he’d been working with addicts for twenty years. After Shane had been laid off, he had started cutting back his dose, knowing he couldn’t afford the clinic for long. Even at an accelerated rate, they told him it would take six months to go from an 80-milligram dose to zero… without suffering.

“Maybe White Bird can help you,” Mary said. “There are also some free residential clinics in this state.”

“They have waiting lists. I’ll be lying on the floor moaning by this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, Shane. As of right now, you are no longer a client of this clinic and I have to ask you to leave.” Mary looked past him, not making eye contact.

Shane wanted to grab her hands and beg for his life. He wanted to chain himself to the desk until she relented. He knew it was pointless and would burn his bridges here. “Can I have my forty dollars back? Since you’re not gonna dose me.”

She pushed the twenties across the desk. “Good luck, Shane.”

“I’ll need more than luck.” He grabbed the cash and bolted from the room.

Shit. Shit. Shit
. He was shaking by the time he hit the parking lot. Pure fear. The withdrawal symptoms wouldn’t start for a few hours. He wasn’t going to let it happen. He’d experienced it once when he’d spent a day in jail because he’d missed a meeting with his probation officer. The pain had been like a sharp-toothed creature eating him from the inside. Followed by nausea and sweating and dizziness. He’d spent the night on the holding-room floor, making noises he didn’t know humans could make. It had been the longest twenty-four hours of his life. It would take up to ten days for his body to fully adjust. Methadone was the most addictive drug in the world.

So he had no choice. He would make some calls and find someone selling methadone tablets. Some doctors prescribed it for pain and there was always someone with a prescription who didn’t use all of it and didn’t mind making a little money on the side. His forty dollars might buy him two days worth if he took half a dose.

Then what? Street methadone would eat up his unemployment checks faster than the clinic did. Shane walked south toward the bus station downtown. He would find someone with a cell phone. Hell, he might even find someone with a connection. He knew it was dangerous to call his old drug buddies but what else could he do? If he went cold turkey he’d end up in the hospital. Or shooting up again. He couldn’t let either of those things happen. He had to stay functional and find a job and get back into the clinic. He had a life plan now and his girlfriend was counting on him. He wouldn’t let her down, even if he had to go back to his parents and beg. He would do everything else first though.

Two minutes later, Shane came across a guy outside the WOW Hall using a cell phone. He waited until he was done, then asked to use it. “Make it quick, I’m expecting a call back.” Shane dialed an old number from memory. Tyler Gorlock would know someone who could help him.

The connection had not worked out but Tyler had kept his forty dollars, claiming Shane owed him. By five that afternoon he was in the parking lot where his mother worked, lying on the ground next to her car, shaking. He had vomited once in the grass nearby and was now taking short rapid breaths like a woman in labor. He hoped none of his mother’s co-workers would see him. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass his mother. He also prayed she would come out soon.

“Shane, what’s going on?” Her worried face gave him his first glimmer of hope for the day. If it were in her power, his mother would help him. She kneeled on the blacktop and stroked his face, not caring about her nylons. “Let’s get you in the car.”

“The clinic kicked me out because I couldn’t pay. I’m in withdrawal.” Shane struggled to his feet, climbed in the back seat, and lay down.

“Do you need to go to the ER?”

“I need to borrow forty dollars and buy some methadone.”

His mother started the car and headed out. “You mean from a dealer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a long-term plan.”

“I know.”

She drove in silence and Shane knew she was taking him home. The thought gave him little comfort. Nothing but methadone, or some other opioid, would take away the withdrawal pain.

At the house, his mother urged him to come inside but he stayed in the back of the car. There was no point in suffering the trip inside. If his parents agreed to start paying for the clinic again, he would numb the pain with alcohol and survive until the clinic opened in the morning. If they wouldn’t pay, he would have his mother take him back downtown. She would probably give him enough cash to get a dose for today. He had another idea about where to score methadone.

After a few minutes, both parents came out to the car and his father opened the back door and stared at him. Shane tried to suppress the little animal sounds but he couldn’t. The pain was making him feel suicidal.

“Oh Christ.” His father sounded worried and disgusted at the same time. He turned to Shane’s mom. “This is emotional blackmail. If we pay for even one month of methadone, then it becomes our responsibility again. And if Shane doesn’t find a job, we’ll have to pay again next month and the next month. I want him to get off the damn stuff.”

“What is your plan?” His mother was emotional now too. “We can’t leave him like this.”

“This will pass. He’ll be okay.”

“What if he starts using again? Do you want that on your conscience?”

Shane wanted to die. He hated being the source of his parents’ fights. His father was a good person, but he just didn’t understand. Holding his stomach, tears rolling down his face, Shane climbed out of the car and stumbled down the driveway. He would find another way.

Tuesday, June 2, 8:05 p.m.

After an hour in the interrogation room, Shane began to vomit again. He claimed he had the flu and was in withdrawal from methadone, but Jackson didn’t believe him. Either way, Jackson decided to book him into the jail where he would get medical attention. The county deputies who ran the jail would not be happy with the burden, but tough shit. Jackson wasn’t about to let Shane go unless they confirmed his alibi, which seemed highly unlikely. Meanwhile he wanted Shane to have a doctor on standby in case something extreme happened. Drug addicts were known to have heart failure from losing potassium through vomiting.

Jackson walked him downstairs to his cruiser under the building. Shane was still cuffed and his nose dripped mucus, but he seemed okay for the moment. No crying, no puking. The kid had been through a very tough time lately, but Jackson couldn’t let himself sympathize. The pile of bloody bodies was still fresh in his mind and Shane was the primary suspect. He’d been a little high during the questioning and Jackson didn’t trust anything he said.

As they walked across the underground parking lot filled with cop cars, Jackson said, “I noticed you said you loved your cousins and your Aunt Carla. What about Jared? Why didn’t you love Uncle Jared?”