Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (2 page)

“Check his pulse, just to be sure,” he called to McCray. Jackson knelt down next to the boy and touched his arm. Even through gloves his flesh was cool.

The chirp of a cell phone broke into the quiet. Jackson pivoted toward the sound. The beep came from the pocket of the dead man by the sink. Jackson and McCray looked at each other, uncertain of the correct response. “We’ll let it ring, then see who called,” Jackson said. “Maybe they’ll leave a message and tell us something important.”

The chirp stopped after six rings, and Jackson retrieved the phone with gloved hands. He flipped open the cheap Motorola and the screen said:
Missed call. Check messages?
Jackson pressed
Yes
and put the phone to his ear. “Jared, it’s Noni. Have you seen Roy?” The caller sounded worried and a maybe a little pissed off. “He didn’t come home last night. If you know where he is, please call me.”

Jackson chose option four,
Save message
. While he clicked through, looking for the name or number of the last call, McCray asked, “Who was it?”

“Someone named Noni, looking for Roy. She says Roy didn’t come home last night.” Jackson found the data he wanted. “The call is labeled Roy Engall in the directory. Probably a married couple. I
also
would like to know why Roy didn’t come home last night.”

“Holy mother of god.” Lara Evans stood in the archway, mouth open, her heart-shaped face registering horror. She was the youngest detective in the unit, and at the moment, the most unprepared for this assignment.

Michael Quince, a step behind, opened his mouth, closed it, then finally said, “What the hell?” Jackson had never heard Quince curse before. Behind his movie-star looks, Quince was a quiet respectful man. No one in the unit had ever seen anything like this.

“We saw the ambulance go tearing out of here,” Evans said. “Is someone alive?”

“The daughter still had a pulse, but barely. We have three dead I know of.” Jackson needed more time to visually process the scene before the house filled with detectives, technicians, and prosecutors. “Time is critical. The perpetrator is likely on the run. We need to canvass the neighborhood and find out if anybody saw a vehicle. Evans, start by talking to the sister outside. Get the names of everyone who lived here. Then both of you talk to the neighbors. From the looks of the congealing blood, I think they were killed last night.”

Evans said, “I’m on it.”

Quince nodded, and the detectives turned and headed out.

McCray rose from his position near the dead man. “I think this victim was hit in the head with that baseball bat, then stabbed after he was down.” He rubbed his wrinkled face as if to wash the scene out of his eyes. “Thirty years as a cop, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Me neither.” Jackson turned to the wooden bat leaning against a lower cabinet near the refrigerator. It had surprisingly little blood on it compared to the rest of the kitchen. “Will you check all the victims for ID?” Jackson reached in his bag for his video camera. He didn’t use it often, but for this scene it could prove critical.

It was a relief to put a lens between himself and the carnage. The distorted view allowed his brain to start working more objectively. He filmed the kitchen slowly, recording the positions of the bodies, then moved to the baseball bat.

He hit pause, backed up to the archway, then zoomed in on the teenage boy. From what little he could see of his face, Jackson guessed his age at fifteen or so. Five-seven and about a hundred and forty pounds. The boy had sandy brown hair and eyes, but his skin had the same coloring as the females. Blue baggy basketball shorts, white t-shirt, and white basketball shoes—a typical teenage boy. Only this young man’s life had been cut short by a large knife in the back. Jackson wanted to roll him over and fully see the victim’s face, but the medical examiner would not appreciate it.

He panned the camera over to the woman. She looked about five-five and muscular, like someone who exercised but still couldn’t lose the last fifteen pounds. Her white t-shirt with colored beading had been stained even before the blood spurting from her severed hand sprayed the bottom half. With her reddish-blond hair and pink sunburn, she reminded Jackson of his sister-in-law Jan, who often looked after his daughter when he worked difficult cases.

Jackson forced himself to focus. From the position of the woman’s body, he guessed she’d taken a blow to her head first, then was knocked to the ground and slashed. The pathologist would likely report she had died of blood loss.

“Jared Walker, age thirty-seven.” McCray read from the driver’s license in his hand. “His wallet was in his back pocket and there’s still seven dollars in it.”

Jackson made an involuntary noise in his throat. Jared Walker hadn’t been killed for quick cash. He swung the video camera over to the cabinets and aimed it at the body on the floor. Jared Walker was about Jackson’s size, six-feet tall and two-hundred-plus pounds. That was the only resemblance. Walker’s blond hair curled at the back of his neck, his face was long and thin, and his Adam’s apple bulged in an almost-freakish way. Faded jeans and a navy blue t-shirt topped bare feet. The slashed and blood-soaked shirt had once said “Hawaii.” Jackson recognized the white floral pattern above the letters. Based on the house and the vehicles in the driveway, Jackson guessed Jared had never been to the islands and had picked up the shirt at a garage sale.

While Jackson filmed the bloody bat, McCray rummaged through a purse on the kitchen counter. “Carla Walker,” McCray announced, “age thirty-six.”

Time seemed to have nearly stopped. They’d been in the house for ten minutes, yet it felt like an hour. Jackson heard footsteps and paused the camera as the medical examiner entered the kitchen.

“Isn’t this some crazy shit?” Rich Gunderson, dressed in his usual black, was in his fifties and had seen more dead bodies than anyone ever should.

“It looks like a lot of rage,” Jackson said, stepping to the side, uncertain of where Gunderson would start.

“Or the work of a cold-blooded pyscho.” Detective Rob Schakowski stood in the archway, looking paler than usual. He’d lost a little roundness since his heart attack, but his buzz cut and square face still made him look mean, which he was not. Unless you were an uncooperative lowlife criminal.

“Hey, Schak. Glad you’re here. Let’s start a room-by-room search.” Jackson slid the video camera back into his bag. “We’re looking for anything that doesn’t belong and any form of communication either from the killer or the family. Round up cell phones and open e-mails if you can.”

Schak headed to the desk in the corner and McCray started down the hall. Two evidence technicians entered the house and Jackson told them to start with the front door, then move to the bat and knife. They needed to start running fingerprints though the system ASAP. Jackson went back to the kitchen to hear what Gunderson had to say.

The medical examiner kneeled next to the teenage boy. From the back, with his short gray ponytail and black shirt, Gunderson looked more like an aging artist than an investigator. Yet his attention to detail often made the case.

“I need a time of death,” Jackson said, knowing Gunderson would do it first anyway.

“Give me a minute.”

With gloved hands Gunderson pulled back the elastic waistband of the boy’s shorts and plunged a large thermal probe into his hip. While he waited for a reading, Jackson took in more of the kitchen. The countertops were cluttered, but overall the space was clean. A black baseball glove, like the kind worn by batters, was on the end of the counter near the door leading to the garage. Had the boy come in from batting practice and left the glove and bat in the kitchen?

A moment later Jackson noticed the pigs. Ceramic pigs in assorted sizes, colors, and moods nestled among the countertop appliances. The largest one, a happy, white-speckled creature with a contrasting pink lid, caught his eye. Jackson lifted the top and inside was a palm-sized silver handgun.

Instinct told him it belonged to the family. Why had no one used it to protect themselves? Had the attacker or attackers broke in and overwhelmed them? Jackson lifted the mini revolver and sniffed it, concluding it hadn’t been fired recently. He emptied the chamber and put the gun and bullets in separate pre-labeled bags. The killer must not have known it was there.

“Body temperature is 84.6 degrees,” Gunderson announced. “So I’d say this boy died between eleven and twelve last night.”

Ten hours ago. The killer could be in Mexico already. Even if he was still around, he’d had plenty of time to get rid of his bloody clothes and possibly establish an alibi.

“Any obvious defensive wounds?”

“He has minor nicks on his hands, so it’s likely he struggled with his attacker.” Gunderson bagged the boy’s hands to collect any trace evidence that might dislodge during transport.

“Any head wounds?”

“None that I see.”

The son hadn’t been struck on the head. What did that mean? Had the boy come in while his parents were being attacked and tried to stop the slaughter?

A clicking sound filled the room as the medical examiner took a dozen photos of the boy’s knife wounds and position on the floor. The smallness of the room and its overpowering smells closed in on Jackson. He had to get out for a moment and breathe fresh air.

He also needed information, such as the relationship between the victims and who else lived here. He’d been assuming they were a nuclear family, but he could be wrong. He pulled his booties off at the door and headed for the sidewalk. Evans was still talking to the sister, who had calmed down a little. Quince was with the older couple at the edge of the lawn.

Jackson introduced himself to the sister, then turned to Evans. “Give me a rundown on who lives here.”

“Jared and Carla Walker, and their two children, Lori and Nick Walker. The kids’ cousin Shane, from Jared’s side of the family, spends a lot of time here but doesn’t live in the house.”

Jackson looked at Rita. “How old is Shane and where does he live?”

“He’s twenty, and I’m not sure where he lives now.” She reached into her purse for a tissue. “He used to live with his parents, Kevin and Tracy Compton, on Windsor Circle. Tracy is Jared’s sister.” A startled expression came over Rita’s face. “You don’t think Shane was involved, do you?”

“Is he capable of something like this?”

“Lord no.” An emphatic shake of her head. “He’s had his troubles, but he loves his family and he’s very close to his cousins.”

Jackson gave Evans a slight nod. Shane would be the first person they interrogated. “What kind of trouble?”

“He used to have a drug problem, but it’s in the past.” Rita raised her hands to cover her face. “Shane didn’t do this.”

“Where does he work?”

“He worked at Country Coach until about a month ago when he was laid off.”

Evans broke in. “Should I go find him?”

“Send a uniform to the Compton house and put out an attempt-to-locate. I need you here, talking to the neighbors.” Jackson suspected finding Shane would require some manpower.

He turned back to Rita. “Any idea who might have done this?”

She shuddered. “None. My sister and her husband were good people. Good kids too.” Rita began to sob.

“Had anything changed in their lives recently? New friends? Marriage troubles? Drug or alcohol use?”

“They both lost their jobs recently like half the people in this country, but otherwise I can’t think of anything.”

“What was the status of the front door when you arrived?”

“It was closed but not locked. When no one answered, I opened it and went in.” Rita inhaled short little gulps of air, trying to control her sobs. “I need to be at the hospital with Lori.” She started to move away.

Jackson touched her arm with just enough pressure to stop her. “I understand. We’ll let you go in a minute. Right now we need your help to find out what happened here.” Jackson steered her toward the mobile unit. “I’d like you to go with Officer Anderson into our mobile office and sit down and write out the names of everyone connected to this family, including friends and co-workers. Make a note of the connection, please. It will be very helpful for us.”

“You don’t think Lori will live to tell you who did this?”

After losing that much blood, Jackson thought she might never wake up. “She may be unconscious for a while. We need to act now.”

Rita nodded and followed the officer.

Jackson took a moment to assess the situation. A bad-boy cousin with a drug problem who might be a suspect—and a survivor. He started to feel a little less bleak about this case, but the image of the severed hand would be with him for a while.

More cars came up the street, and Jackson recognized the district attorney’s black Lexus. He waited while the DA parked, strode up the sidewalk, and ducked under the yellow tape. Dressed in gray pinstripes that made him look lean and hungry, Slonecker always managed to make Jackson feel disheveled. He briefed the DA about what he’d learned so far, then let Slonecker go in and see for himself.

Evans was talking with the woman who lived on the right, and Quince was still questioning the old couple. Jackson directed two patrol officers to canvass the homes across the cul-de-sac. He and his team would likely question them all again later, but right now they needed to know: Did you hear anything? Did you see anyone come and go? What was he driving?