Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (21 page)

CHAPTER 27

Jackson bolted to his feet. “Did he give his name? What number did he call from?” The other detectives stood too.

Sophie held out her phone, showing the number of the last incoming call. “No name. He wants me to contact state legislators and compel them to repeal the pot-legalization law.”

Jackson couldn’t focus on what she was saying. He was keying the number into his own phone. He pressed the Call button, in the wild hope that the perp was egotistical enough to take the call. But after six rings, it cut off. No voice mail. Jackson called dispatch, legs vibrating as he waited through another round of rings. The five of them standing at the table drew stares from other customers. But it was raining, so moving their conference outside wasn’t a good option, and there was no point in getting in their cars until they had a plan.

“What is your emergency?” The male dispatcher’s voice was oddly soothing.

“Detective Jackson here. I need you to trace this number right now.” As he rattled off the digits, he sat back down. Quince and Evans did too, but Schak excused himself. Sophie took Schak’s chair. Jackson wanted to dismiss her—because he couldn’t discuss police business in front of her—but she was the link to the poisoner. What if he called her again? While the dispatcher searched a database for the number, Jackson looked at Sophie. “What else did the poisoner say?”

“That he was the only one who knew the kind of poison and that the victims would die if we didn’t meet his demands.” Her eyes sparked with energy.

The reporter’s focus was different from his, but she was a passionate truth seeker, and he’d come to respect that. For a long time, he’d disliked her for posting certain photos and information he didn’t want the public to have, but later she’d become a vital source of information in several homicide investigations. Her knack for knowing who to interview and getting them to open up was uncanny. She would have made a good detective.

He needed more information from her now. “Did the perp give any hint of who he was or why he was doing this?”

“He has a grievance about marijuana, and I think he wants to share it, so I expect to hear from him again.” Sophie took out her notepad as she talked. “His voice sounded middle-aged or older. Do you think he shot the pot growers too?”

The dispatcher came back on the line. “I have the location.”

Jackson put his phone on speaker. “Ready.”

“It’s a landline at the Gas & Go gas station, near the corner of Coburg Road and Bailey Lane.”

“Thanks.” Jackson’s mind raced to form a plan. The perp was probably gone from that spot, but they had to check it out. The poisoner could be connected to the business or live nearby. But they had to track him on paper too. “Quince, come with me to the call site. Evans, stay with Sophie in case the perp calls back. But look for the point of contamination while you’re waiting. Tell Schak to search the databases for past cases with poison or anyone with a marijuana-related grievance.”

Jackson’s chest tightened with worry and stress. They had to stop the perp before he sickened more people. The full impact of Sophie’s words hit him. He turned to her. “You said, ‘victims.’ Who else has been poisoned?”

“Shane Edward. He’s the six-year-old son of our photographer, Brian.”

A kid?
“He ate a pot brownie?”

“Yes. Brian is mortified.”

Idiot!
The state had already documented a dozen cases of children consuming marijuana products that looked and tasted like candy or cookies. The law needed tweaking to protect kids from irresponsible parents. “When did you find out? Why didn’t you report it?”

Sophie stiffened, her freckled face obviously hurt. “I left a message with Detective Evans last night. Right after I heard the hospital staff talking about a second poisoning. I’m sure they reported it to someone too.”

Had the department liaison been trying to contact him? The EPD had never worked a product-tampering case before. Could his unit handle this? He turned back to Evans. “Call Agent River and see what she advises. We might as well tap into the FBI’s resources. Ask her to meet with us at the department in a few hours. I’ll keep you posted.”

Time to move. Jackson hurried out of the restaurant, with Quince following. They jogged back to the jail parking lot, where they’d left their cars, getting soaked on the way. Inside the vehicle, he cranked up the heat and raced out to Coburg Road. The Gas & Go station and convenience store was one of the few independents left, and its age showed. The red-and-yellow logo had faded, and the retail store was about the size of a big pantry. Jackson parked next to the little building and rushed inside. No clerk. He glanced out the dirty window over the rows of candy. A young man was pumping gas in the rain, his only protection dark-green rain gear.

Quince stepped inside. “I see why the perp chose this place. The attendant is probably out there more than he’s in here. Do you see the phone?”

Jackson moved sideways through the small opening between the shelves and the cluttered counter. The phone, a standard black business-style model, sat behind a display of cigarette lighters. “We need prints.” Jackson searched through his satchel. Did he have a kit? He hadn’t used one in years.

“I have one in my car.” Quince hurried back outside.

The attendant burst in a moment later. “What are you doing back there?” His smooth baby face and eagerness made him seem twelve.

“Getting fingerprints from this phone. Have you used it in the last half hour?”

“No. What’s this about?”

Jackson introduced himself, then asked for the clerk’s name.

“Ted Osit. Am I in trouble?” His pinched face suddenly made him look sixteen.

“Not unless you’re making threatening phone calls.” He would hate to mention the poison. People got scared and blabbed, and he didn’t want this to go public until he’d talked to the chief and the media coordinator. But if the retail supply of marijuana brownies had been tampered with, they had to warn the public.

“I didn’t make any calls.” The clerk’s voice was high-pitched, a teenager who was probably still in high school.

“Did you see a man come in here and use the phone recently?”

“I didn’t see him on the phone, but I saw someone walking away from the store about twenty minutes ago. And he wasn’t a gas customer.” The kid turned at the sound of a car pulling in. “I have to take care of my customer.”

“Wait. Describe the guy first. This is critical.”

“Uhh.” The kid shoved his hands in his pockets, frustrated. “I don’t know, man. About your height, but thinner. And older, I think.”

“What about his face?”

“I didn’t really see it. He kept it down, you know. Because of the rain.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Jeans, maybe. A dark jacket. I have to do my job, but I’ll be right back.” The clerk ran toward the car at the pump. Jackson hadn’t seen a gas station attendant move that fast in ages. Nice work ethic. Halfway to the pump, the kid turned around, came back inside, and said, “He wore a green Ducks hat. You know, the baseball style.”

That should have been helpful, but in Eugene, the university logo was everywhere. But it was something. The attendant ran off again, and Quince came in with a small kit. “I’ll take the prints,” he said.

“Great. I need to call in a description for an attempt-to-locate.” Patrol officers would start looking for the perp.

The prints took longer than his call, so Jackson went out to ask the clerk more questions. All he learned was that the man had been walking “toward town.” Which could have meant only that he was parked on the south side of the station. The perp could have driven to this location from anywhere. But it seemed likely that he was familiar with the business and knew the phone was there and unsupervised, so he could make a private call.

“Had you ever seen him before?” Jackson wished he’d worn a hat today. The deluge had slowed to a drizzle, but he was damn tired of being wet.

“I’ve been thinking about that. He reminds me of two customers. One guy drives a weird yellow car, like one of those old-school El Caminos, only it’s new and has a backseat. I don’t know what the hell it is.” The teenager pushed his rain hood off and rubbed his short blond hair. “The other guy he looks kind of like is a little older and drives a gray Honda CR-V. I only noticed it ’cause my mom has one just like it.”

Jackson pulled out his recorder and repeated the details. It was too wet to get out his notebook. “Do you know the name of either man?”

“No. Sorry.” The kid bolted again, this time to a pump that had shut off. Some people hated the state law that didn’t permit customers to pump their own gas, but it created jobs. And for this kid, it was a good experience.

Jackson jogged back to the little store, but the pain flare was so intense he had to slow to a walk. He’d taken naproxen that morning, but it was time to schedule an MRI. The fibrosis was obviously growing again. When he stepped inside, Quince looked up from behind the counter. “I’ve got the prints I need, so I’ll head straight to the crime lab.”

“Thanks. I’ll drive around the neighborhood for a while, then we’ll meet in the conference room in about an hour.” As they walked back to their sedans, Jackson shared the description of the man and the two possible vehicles. “Who knows? I might get lucky and spot one of them.”

When Quince reached for his car door, he asked, “Is Sergeant Lammers really going to die if we don’t find this perp? Have you talked to anyone at the hospital?”

A layer of guilt piled on his physical pain. “Not since yesterday. She was still in critical care, but not getting worse. I’ll call again soon.”

Quince shuddered. “Who would be willing to kill people just to force pot to be illegal again?”

Then it hit Jackson. “Someone who has lost a loved one in a marijuana-related death.”

“Then he should be easy to find,” Quince said. “Because those are still rare.”

Unless the perp and his loved one’s story was more complicated than a stoner accident. Considering the poisoner’s level of outrage and revenge, it had to be.

CHAPTER 28

Damn!
Evans wanted to go out with Jackson to the scene of the perp’s call, and instead she was stuck babysitting Sophie. That wasn’t a fair assessment. Sophie was smart and resourceful. Sometimes too resourceful. Evans regretted telling her so much the night before. The reporter had caught her in a rare moment of anger, frustration, and guilt. Evans didn’t have a friend she could confide in, other than a woman in Financial Crimes, and they weren’t that close. Yet. She was trying to reach out more socially, but it was challenging to establish relationships outside the department. She hoped her date with the firefighter tomorrow night went well.

“Brian’s brownies were from Hightones,” Sophie said, getting up. “It’s across from the DMV on West Tenth. I’ll meet you there.”

“Wait,” Evans said as she stood. “You should ride with me, in case the perp calls.”

The reporter shook her head and pulled on her leather jacket. “I need my car. And it’s only a few minutes from here.” Sophie strode toward the door, moving like a woman with a mission. Evans hurried after her. She wanted to find the source of the poison even more than Sophie did. Saving a life—or several—would help appease her guilt over ending Conner Harron’s life. Saving Sergeant Lammers, in particular, would bolster her in the eyes of the whole department.

They found the food-production kitchen in the middle of a row of low-rent businesses in the West Eugene area. The metal buildings were divided into units by thin walls, and few of the tenants even had a window in front. Hightones sat between a document-copying- and-shredding business and an electrician’s shop. Foot traffic and customer appeal weren’t a priority for any of the small shops.

While Sophie made a call in her car, Evans went inside, and the smell of baking brownies flooded her senses. When she was a small child, her mother had baked chocolate treats every weekend, and she’d loved helping. It was one of the few good memories she had of her childhood in Alaska, which had otherwise been spent trying to stay warm and out of the way of her mean alcoholic father. Her mother had been mostly silent, waiting tables at a café and reading in her free time to escape her reality. Evans had left home right after graduating from high school, with the shame of being sexually assaulted by a police officer still vivid in her mind. Rather than hate all cops, she’d decided to become one of the good ones.

“Can I help you?” A middle-aged woman approached her, wearing an apron with a picture of a bulldog smoking a joint.

Evans introduced herself, hearing the door open behind her as she talked. “And this is Sophie Speranza. What’s your name?”

“Ursula Fenton. What’s this about?” A frown of worry on her chubby face.

“Two people have been poisoned by brownies that came from this store.”

“No!” The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “That’s not possible.”

Evans ignored her denial and continued. “Both victims are in the hospital, violently ill. I need you to show me your operation and tell me everything about your supply line.”

“You think someone tampered with our products?”

“Quite possibly.” Evans scanned the narrow space. Small front counter—for the customers who wandered in—a large stainless-steel table, and a wall of industrial ovens. Two sinks, a restaurant-style refrigerator, and shelves along the back filled with baking supplies. She glanced at Sophie, who was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. Having a reporter along while she investigated was discomforting, especially since she’d already shared too much with her. But it was Jackson’s order. Evans took out her small tablet computer and focused on the baker. “Let’s start with a list of everyone who works here.”

“That’s easy. Me and my husband, John Fenton. He’s out delivering edibles now.”

Evans had to consider that one of the owners was crazy and had poisoned their own brownies, but that seemed unlikely. Sophie had said the caller was an older male, so John Fenton was still a suspect. “Will you contact your husband and tell him to come back here?” She visualized him dropping off poison-laced pot cookies to retail stores. What if he was the perp? He was already on the road and might just keep going. “No, just call him, put him on speaker, and let me talk.” Evans turned to Sophie. “Listen to this voice, please.” No need to elaborate and alarm the wife.

Ursula Fenton drew in a quick breath anyway. “Why? You can’t think John poisoned anyone. He’s the most gentle person you’ll ever meet.”

“I’m just doing my job. We have to stop the perp, whoever he is.”

With flour-coated, shaking hands, the baker called her husband and set the cell phone on the counter. A timer went off in the kitchen. “I have to get those.” She trotted to the large wall-mounted ovens.

“Hey, Sula. What do you need?” John Fenton’s voice sounded as sweet as the confections they made.

Evans glanced at Sophie, who shook her head and mouthed, “No.”

“This is Detective Evans, Eugene Police. Have you dropped off any products yet?”

A pause, with the rumble of an old truck engine in the background. “I made one stop. Why? What’s going on?”

“Your goods could be contaminated. Go back, pick up what you delivered, and come straight to your shop.”

“What do you mean
contaminated
?” Sincere concern.

“Possibly poisoned. Don’t consume anything. Just get back here.” Evans hung up. She still had a lot of ground to cover.

Ursula had removed two trays of brownies and put them on racks on a counter to cool. On the other end of the long table, she’d been forming truffles on wax paper when they’d walked in. The baker looked at Evans with tears in her eyes. “This is going to ruin our business, isn’t it? We borrowed money to buy the ovens. And we’ve worked so hard.”

Evans felt bad for the couple, but she had to stay focused. “I need a list of your suppliers for everything. Starting with the marijuana.”

“We use THC oil from Dixie Elixirs.”

“Is that a local company?” She keyed the name into her tablet.

“No, it’s based in Denver. I’m sure we’ll end up with a Eugene supplier eventually.” Ursula made an odd sound in her throat. “If we survive this PR disaster.” The baker stared at Sophie. “You’re a reporter with the
Willamette News
, aren’t you? Please don’t ruin us. This isn’t our fault.”

Sophie patted the distressed baker’s arm. “Once they catch the perpetrator, it’ll smooth over. People forget.”

Evans cut in. “I need the names of everyone else you buy ingredients from.”

“We get gluten-free flour from Hummingbird Wholesale in twenty-pound bags. We buy walnuts from them too.” Ursula pulled her hairnet off, defeated. “We buy eggs from Eggelicious. Actually, they deliver to us. So does Morning Glory Honey.”

Evans typed the names as she heard them. “What about the chocolate or cocoa or whatever?”

“We buy Baker’s chocolate online in bulk, and it’s delivered by UPS.”

“Who else has access to this building? A maintenance man? A cleaning crew? Landlord?”

Ursula shook her head. “Just the owner of the building. We lease from him. But he never comes around.”

Sophie spoke up. “Has anyone ever targeted your business? Hate mail or anything?”

Evans gave the reporter a look. It was a good question, but it should have come from her.

Ursula bit her lip. “A church pastor came here once and lectured me about drugs and better labels to keep kids out of our products. We took the labels issue seriously and made changes.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember her name, but she was from the Fellowship Church.”

Evan made a note. Religious zealots were known to hurt people to further their causes. She remembered the clerk at Green Medicine saying the brownies came in a variety of packages. “Where are the wrapped, ready-to-deliver products stored?”

“Back here.” Ursula led them past a still-warm oven to a shelf along the back wall. She gestured at the empty space. “There’s nothing there now, because John just loaded it all into the van and I’m still working on the next batch.”

Sophie started to speak, then caught herself and went quiet again.

Evans almost smiled. The reporter was used to asking questions, so being a bystander was probably driving her crazy. Evans wanted to understand how only one of the brownies the photographer had bought had contained poison. “Tell me about the packaging.”

“We send some brownies out in packages of six or twelve, and others are individually wrapped. We do more of the smaller bundles. The twelve-packs are mostly for parties, or for people who like to buy in bulk for the discount, then freeze them.”

The photographer could have bought three or four individual brownies, each wrapped in cellophane. But how and when did the perp get the poison into the single packages? Did he inject them with a syringe? “Are you sure no one comes back here?”

Ursula shook her head. “No. We’re a true mom-and-pop operation.”

“What about delivery people?” Sophie burst out. “Where do they drop off?”

Ursula pointed to a door in between the sets of shelves. It was made of the same gray metal as the walls, so it blended right in. “They park out back and ring the buzzer. Sometimes I take a handoff from them, or if it’s a big delivery, they come in, usually pushing a hand truck.”

Could the poisoner be a supplier? Evans glanced at her notes. Eggs and honey were delivered. “What other local supplies arrive at your back door?”

“Milk from Kepler’s Dairy.”

“Do you know the delivery people by name? Are they always the same?”

“It’s been the same three guys for a few months now. The egg man from Eggelicious is named Sam, but I don’t know the other two.”

“Are they ever alone back here?” It wouldn’t take long to stick a syringe in a brownie or two.

Ursula looked near tears again, and she twisted her hands in distress. “No. I’m right here all the time.” The front door opened, and they all turned. Ursula started forward, then froze. She turned back to Evans. “Unless a customer comes in while they’re making a delivery.”

They needed names and background checks on the delivery people ASAP.