Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (14 page)

“I used to. He took me and Nick fishing all the time when we were kids.”

“What happened?”

“He harassed my dad one night at the tavern. I don’t even know what about. They got in a fight and my dad got hurt.” Shane stopped and gulped in air. Jackson hoped he wouldn’t start puking again.

“What happened next?” Jackson nudged him toward the car.

“Dad hit his head and now he’s like a different person. It’s weird and sad. The guy who used to be my dad is gone and I miss him.”

“You blame Jared, don’t you?”

“I did, but now he’s dead. I don’t know how I feel.”

Jackson remembered Lisa saying her brother was bitter. “You were still mad at Jared when you went over there on Sunday. Did you argue with him?”

They reached the car and Jackson opened the back door. Shane started to cry again. “Two months ago, we were a happy family. Now everything is all fucked up.”

After booking Shane into the jail, Jackson drove back to headquarters and searched for Aaron Priest in the database. The name was an alias for Adam Palmer, who had been convicted of possession, distribution, and various forms of theft. Another addict. Jackson put out an attempt-to-locate and asked for a patrol officer to check the last known address for Priest/Palmer, realizing it was probably a waste of time. Looking for an addict was like looking for a runaway dog. He could be two blocks away, living with the first person who’d fed him, or in a car a hundred miles down the road.

Jackson leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He kept thinking the fight in the parking lot between the brothers-in-law had to be connected to the murder of Jared and his family. Had Kevin and Shane gone over there together and confronted Jared? Those two as perpetrators would explain why two of the victims had been hit in the head with the bat and two had not. They probably hadn’t intended to hurt the kids until Nick and/or Lori tried to defend their parents.

He needed to talk to Tracy and Kevin again and get the whole story. Jackson checked his watch: 9:10 p.m. They wouldn’t like him showing up this late, but it was a homicide investigation and he needed information. Nick and Jared’s autopsies were scheduled for tomorrow and would take up a big chunk of his day. He also had a conference scheduled at the crime lab to reconstruct the murders, based on blood spatter, position of the bodies, and various other factors. He was not looking forward to it, but he needed the experts’ opinions about how many perpetrators were involved and who was killed first.

Jackson resisted stopping for coffee on his drive out to Windsor Circle in southwest Eugene. He hoped to head home after this and get a few hours of sleep. The Comptons’ house was a large split-level near the top of Windsor Circle where it intersected with Wilshire. Even in the dark, Jackson could see it was well maintained.

Lights were on all over the house and two cars occupied the driveway, a silver hybrid Prius and the white van with the wavy pool water on the sides. Jackson wondered how the family was holding up. First the economy must have hit their business hard, then Kevin suffered the brain injury. Now Tracy’s brother and his family were dead and her son was suspected of the murder. To get a confession out of Shane, Jackson needed his parents to tell him everything.

He rang the doorbell and a dog started barking. Jackson tensed. A dog had given him the scar through his eyebrow. Tracy’s voice came through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“Detective Jackson. I have Shane in custody and we need to talk.”

The barking got louder as she opened the door. The noise came from a small fluffy dog the size of a stuffed toy. Tracy reached down and grabbed the dog’s collar to keep it from jumping on Jackson’s leg.

“Will you put the dog in another room while we talk?” Jackson waited while Tracy came back from a bedroom, then followed her to the dining room where Kevin was going over paperwork at the table.

“I’m sorry for the late night visit,” Jackson said, “but I need to know what happened between you and the Walkers.” He sat down across from Kevin and stared, trying to get his attention.

“They have Shane in custody,” Tracy said, sitting close to her husband. She bit her lip and squeezed his shoulder.

“Is he okay?” Kevin finally looked up at Jackson.

“More or less. He seems a little strung out, but he’ll get medical treatment in jail.”

“Oh bullshit.” Tracy shuddered in anger. “They give addicts anti-nausea medicine and that’s it. They don’t even put them on suicide watch unless the inmate says he feels suicidal when he’s booked in.”

“You’ve been through this a few times.” Jackson gave her a sympathetic look. “I wish we had a better system.” Neither parent was moved by his compassion. “Your daughter Lisa says Shane was bitter.”

“Shane didn’t kill anyone.” Tracy’s eyes begged him to believe her.

“Tell me about the confrontation with Jared in the parking lot at the Time Out Tavern.” Jackson kept his focus on Kevin. He wanted to hear Kevin’s version.

“Jared was pissed off because the cops arrested Nick.”

“His fifteen-year-old son?”

Tracy and Kevin exchanged a look.

“Why was Nick arrested? And why would Jared be mad at you about it?”

“Nick stole Kevin’s Lou Gehrig baseball card,” Tracy said in a rush. “It’s a 1934 Goudy worth at least two thousand dollars, so Kevin called the police. I wish like hell we could take it back.”

A month earlier, May 4

Both cars were gone and Nick felt a little surge of joy. He rushed into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. First he cut a paper-thin piece of cheese, wrapped a slice of bread around it, and wolfed the snack in three seconds. He chased the skinny sandwich with a gulp of milk and a single Taffy cookie. He would have liked to eat several more, but resisted. His mother had always monitored the food somewhat and got pissed if he ate things that were supposed to be for dinner, but now that his parents were unemployed, she had become a Nazi about it. Frustrating as it was, he understood the money situation and tried to be reasonable.

Once he’d fed the growling pit in his stomach, Nick hauled his backpack to his room and dug out the pot he’d scored from Brian in exchange for two math assignments. He’d taken his first toke at Brian’s house last week and wondered what he’d been saving himself for. Nick finally understood what
take the edge off
meant. And why shouldn’t he? He had a lot of new edge in his life lately. Like the constant worry his family could end up homeless and living apart from each other. He’d heard his parents talking about it one night. Dad had said the kids could go stay with his sister Tracy, but he and Mom would trade the truck for a van and live in the van. Picturing his parents as homeless was too stressful to think about. Nick rolled a crappy-looking joint and headed to the back deck to take a hit or two. He knew to be careful and not get all bugged-eyed and zoned out.

Halfway through his first inhale, he started coughing. The more he coughed, the more his lungs hurt, and the worse it got. Worried the old couple next door would hear him, Nick went inside and gulped down some water. He hadn’t coughed like this last time.

The brain softness crept in, but this time Nick didn’t like it nearly as much. He felt stupid and guilty and wished he hadn’t brought the pot home or smoked it. He should be out looking for a fast food job or mowing lawns to help his parents. He decided to get on the computer and make a yard-work flyer to pass out in the neighborhood.

As he shuffled toward the desk in the living room, he heard the doorbell ring. A tingle of fear crawled up his spine. Who would ring the doorbell in the afternoon? His friends always knocked once, then barged in. Should he ignore it? Definitely. Nick took two steps toward his room, then stopped. Was the pot making him paranoid? He’d watched enough stoner movies to know it could happen. The doorbell rang again. What if it was something important, like a delivery package? His parents would be irritated if he didn’t handle it.

Nick grabbed a banana, ate one bite to cover the pot smell in his mouth, then tossed the rest on the counter. He hurried to the front of the house, wondering what his parents had ordered. He pulled open the door and his heart nearly stopped. Two cops waited impatiently on the front patio.

Shit
! Nick’s heart pounded so loudly he was sure the cops could hear it. What did they want? Did they know about the pot? Were they here to arrest him? He tried to form a response, but his brain wouldn’t focus or make words come out of his mouth.

“Are you Nick Walker?”

“Yes.”

“We need to talk to you. Can we come in?” The guy cop asked the questions. The girl cop came in close and sniffed. Her blue shirt was stretched tight over big breasts. Nick tried not to stare.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, sounding mean.

“My parents aren’t home.”

“We can talk here or we can talk in the police department.”

Oh shit
. Nick wished he hadn’t gotten high. He couldn’t think straight. He knew he didn’t want to get into the back of a cop car. Ever. After what seemed like an eternity of bouncing thoughts, he reluctantly let them in.

“Let’s sit at the table,” the woman said, heading through the house like she owned it. “I’m Officer Freemont. This is Officer Gibson.”

Nick’s legs shook as he followed her and he was glad to sit. He hoped it would help him concentrate too.

Officer Gibson, an older guy with bad teeth and breath, leaned toward Nick and said, “We’re here about the baseball card. The Lou Gehrig you stole from your uncle. Do you still have it?”

“What?”

“Don’t bother to bullshit us. Kevin Compton wants his card back. The more you cooperate, the less likely you’ll end up in Serbu.”

Every young male in the county knew Serbu was the juvenile detention center, but Nick had no idea why they thought he had Uncle Kevin’s baseball card. “I didn’t steal anything.”

“The card disappeared while you were in their house. Try again.” Gibson’s eyes drilled into him.

“I didn’t take it. Really.”
Lame
! The sound of his own voice made him cringe.

“You won’t mind if we search your room?” The woman stood and gestured for him to follow.

Shit. The pot was in there. Or was it in his pocket?
“I do mind,” Nick stammered.

“You smell like marijuana,” she said with an evil smile. “We have just cause to search the entire house for illegal drugs based on the reasonable assumption that you’re currently using drugs. Are you sure you don’t want to just give up the baseball card?”

“I don’t have it.” The words came out in a squeal. Nick thought he might run for it. Just charge out of the house and get away from these cops before they ruined his life. His legs shook, his heart felt like it would explode, and he had to pee so bad his bladder hurt. Unwillingly, he followed them down the hall where they instinctively found his room.

As the girl cop—he couldn’t remember her name—began to dig though his sock drawer, Nick realized he should call his parents. He started to turn around and head for the phone in the kitchen, then he remembered they had cancelled their landline. Nick glanced around his room, looking for his cell phone. Why couldn’t he keep track of it?

Gibson picked up his backpack from the floor, pulled out a stack of old homework assignments, and tossed them on the bed. The cop rummaged around in the bottom of the pack and came up with the crust of a peanut butter and honey sandwich. Nick watched as they searched, knowing they would eventually find the little baggie, but he was too paralyzed with fear and brain softness to do anything.
Oh shit
. His parents would freak out when they found out about the pot. Especially if there were fines involved.

Nick spotted his phone on the bed. The cop had tossed it out of his backpack and was now searching the closet.
The closet
. He’d hidden the pot in the closet. Nick lurched forward and grabbed the phone. “I’m gonna call my parents.”

They ignored him and kept searching.

Mom or Dad? Nick stared at his speed-dial choices. Mom. She would be calmer, less likely to start yelling. For only the second time he could remember, his mother didn’t pick up when he called her. Nick left her a shaky message: “I’m in trouble. The cops are here searching my room. Can you come home?”

Moments later, Gibson found his pot. “Here we go.” The other cop looked up from her search as Gibson said, “You’re under arrest for possession of a Schedule 1 controlled substance.” He spun toward Nick. “I could cuff you, but if you cooperate, I won’t.”

“What do you want me to do?” Nick’s bladder was on fire.

“Get the baseball card and turn it over to us.”

Nick shook his head and felt a tear roll down his face. “I don’t have it and I don’t know anything about it.” He stuck his index finger in his mouth and bit down hard. The pain distracted him. It looked stupid but it was better than crying. “I have to pee.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Having a cop watch him pee was only the first of his humiliations. Before his parents finally showed up at the police station, he had been hauled away in the back of a cop car, fingerprinted, and grilled again about the baseball card. Eventually, he was given a court date and allowed to go home. On the ride, his parents were mostly silent, which was worse than being yelled at. If they yelled, they got over it and not much more would happen to him. The quiet meant they hadn’t yet figured out how to punish him.