Dying for Justice (4 page)

A shimmer of excitement ran up Evans’ spine. “May I see that?”

Sharon handed it over, and Evans flipped through a few pages. Each held one or two entries, all meticulously dated and time-stamped, but few other names were mentioned. “I’d like to take this with me.”

“I know you’ll never prove he tried to kill Gina,” Sharon said with a small shrug. “But if you send Gary to jail for this other stuff, it would be better than letting him get away completely.”

Evans feared she was right, but she wasn’t giving up the attempted murder case without making every effort. “I intend to conduct a full investigation. Didn’t you say you had made notes at the time?”

“Oh yes. They’re in my desk.”

Sharon retrieved an envelope from an office across the hall and handed it to Evans. “This is everything and it’s not much.”

Back in the living room, Evans racked her brain for what else to ask. If she were at the scene where Gina had been assaulted, she’d have a better idea of how to proceed. “Where was Gina living at the time?”

“She had a condo out by Valley River Center. She moved there after she left Gary.” Sharon was still doing the talking. Evans suspected George thought it might be a waste of time.

“What’s the address? And where did she and Gary live before the separation? I want to talk to the neighbors in both places.”

After writing it down, Evans asked, “Will you look through Gina’s things for a tape recorder? You said she interviewed one of the women Bekker visited. Maybe she recorded it.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

“With Gina’s permission, I’d like to go through her mail too. I’ll go see her again tomorrow and ask.”

“We’re bringing her home as soon as she’s able.”

“When will that be?”

“If her recovery goes well, probably this week. The doctors are amazed by her progress already.”

George added, “She’ll still be in a wheelchair and need lots of help, but she wants to come home.”

Evans handed them both a business card with her work cell phone number. “Call me if you think of anything.”

Sharon gave her hand another squeeze. “Thank you for taking this seriously.”

On the drive back to the department, Evans called the front desk and asked for contact information for Officer Keith Markham. Evans dialed the number immediately so she wouldn’t lose track of it. After a few rings, Markham picked up and she heard the sound of traffic in the background. “This is Detective Evans. Are you on patrol?”

“Yes, but I’m pulling off the road now. What’s the situation?”

Evans looked for a place to pull off as well, so she could take notes. “Do you remember responding to an attempted suicide at the Riverside Terrace two years ago?”

“Yep. Turned out to be Sergeant Bekker’s ex-wife.”

Shit. He knew
who Gina was
. “I’ve been assigned to investigate the incident and I’d like to ask some questions.”

“That’s a little unusual. Why now?”

Evans pulled into a parking lot in front of a shuttered business. “New evidence has come up. Did you notice anything out of place in the apartment? Anything that suggested there might have been a struggle?”

“Not at all. The woman was unconscious on her bed and there was an empty pill bottle nearby. The neighbor lady was there and said she thought it might be a suicide attempt. The paramedics arrived soon after and took her out. End of story.”

“Did you see any bruises on the woman?”

“Are her parents digging this up again and trying to blame Sergeant Bekker?”

“Something like that. I’m just doing my job.” Evans decided the conversation had possibly done more harm than good. “Please keep this conversation confidential.”

“Sure. I hope you don’t waste too much of your time.”

“I won’t. Thanks.”
Shit. She hoped he didn’t tell Bekker.

Evans hung up and headed home. It was time to work off some stress and calories.

After a five-mile run in the heat, her tank top was soaked with sweat and she felt five pounds lighter. A little dizzy from dehydration, even though she’d taken a water bottle, Evans walked the last few blocks to her duplex on Dakota Street. She hoped to own a house someday, but it would not be this one. Still, after five years of renting, her side felt like home.

Evans took a cool shower and headed out to the back deck with a Coors Lite and Gina’s notebook. The sun dipped in the western sky and the evening glowed with pink and orange light. The smell of fresh-cut grass made her feel relaxed and content for the first time that day. She loved every moment of summer.

Evans turned on the porch light and sat down to read. Gina’s handwriting was purposefully neat, with each date and incident carefully documented. Evans flipped to the last entry, noting it was August 1, two days before Gina had been hospitalized. The first entry was June 13, so Gina had documented six weeks of her ex-husband’s activity. Evans counted the entries: seventeen. Gary Bekker had been a busy man that summer. And these were only the visits Gina had known about, and they were all in the evening. Had Bekker refrained from making booty calls during his department shifts? Or had Gina simply been at work and unable to document them?

Until page five, the entries were simply addresses Bekker had visited, along with his time of arrival and departure. Then Gina had made contact with one of the women and had written a detailed account. Evans read the journal entry with growing disgust.

After Gary drove away, I knocked on the apartment door. A blonde woman of about thirty answered. I told her I was Gary Bekker’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and said I was investigating his activities. I made it clear I had no interest in harming her and I asked about the nature of her relationship with Gary. She tried to blow me off at first, but I convinced her that my intention was to expose Gary and help her in the process. Eventually, Trisha Cronin invited me in and told me her story.

She’d met Gary four years ago when he’d arrested her for prostitution and meth possession. He had fondled her freely while transporting her to jail. After Trisha was released three days later, Gary had shown up at her apartment. He’d been blunt. She could suck his dick or he would arrest her again. She had drugs in her bathroom and in her bloodstream and she was facing sixty days in jail for her next drug charge. Trisha argued and pleaded but ended up giving Gary a blowjob. That was the first of many. Over the years, she’d had more arrests and dozens of visits from Gary. On his third stop over, he’d raped her. “That’s what he does,” Trisha said. “He comes over and rapes me. And I never report it because he’s cop and I’m a prostitute and no one would believe me.”

The bastard! Evans slammed the notebook on the table, nearly knocking over her beer. A burning rage filled her veins and forced her out of the chair. She paced the narrow deck, sweat dripping from her temples. She hated sexual predators, and those who hid behind badges were the worst. A memory from the summer she turned seventeen played out in mind. Evans tried to stop it, but she was powerless, just as she had been that day.

A state trooper had pulled her over late one night on her way home from a party. She’d been driving drunk, but it was rural Alaska and the roads were mostly empty. At least that’s what she told herself at the time. She never knew the trooper’s name. He hauled her out of the car, asked her to walk a straight line, and declared her intoxicated. He said she could give him a blowjob or go to jail. Her choice. Young, drunk, and scared, she didn’t think she had a choice. A blowjob seemed easier than a trip to jail and, later, a possible beating from her father. Reeling with intoxication and disgust, she complied, then vomited on his shoes when it was over. He slapped her and told her to sleep in her car for an hour, then go home and behave herself.

She had quit drinking and driving after that, but the partying and wild behavior escalated until she finally ended up in jail. The wake-up call that changed her life. Evans shook the memory from her thoughts and chugged her beer. She had to stay focused on Gina and not let her own bullshit get in the way. But Bekker was going down, one way or another.

Chapter 6

Monday, September 6, 9:45 a.m.

After checking his messages and emails, Jackson headed for the University of Oregon campus. If a dead body had in fact disappeared, this would be a hell of a case to resolve and he’d regret taking it. His plan was to spend the afternoon tracking down loose threads in his parents’ case. He couldn’t even ask Lammers about reopening the file unless he something to substantiate Vargas’ story.

He parked in a tow-away zone under the apartment complex on 17th Avenue and hustled up to the second floor. A tall young woman with braces opened the door. Jackson introduced himself. “I’m here to see Nate Adams.”

“He’s not here, but he told me about seeing ‘the body in the laundry room.’” She made air quotes around the last phrase. “Come in. I’m Sandy.”

She moved toward a messy desk in the living room. “I have to get my stuff together and go to class, so I don’t have much time, but I think I can explain this.” She gathered up papers as she talked. “I asked Nate to describe the guy, and when he did I knew who it was. His name’s Eric. I think he’s a homeless drug addict. I’ve seen him sleeping in the laundry room before, so he’s probably okay.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“He hangs out at Jason’s. Apartment sixteen.” Sandy moved to the door, then waited for Jackson to step out. “I’m sorry my goofy roommate wasted your time. Nate’s a good guy but he’s rather excitable.”

“Thanks for your help.”

It took five minutes for the guy to answer the door. Jackson heard shuffling and muffled voices, so he knocked again. “Jason or Eric! You’re not in trouble. Come to the door.”

Finally a gaunt young man in baggy jeans opened the door a few inches and showed his face. His eyes had the soft, out-of-focus gaze of a drug user. “What do you want?”

Jackson could have pushed his way in, but he didn’t. He worked violent crimes; druggies were a waste of time. “Tell me your name.”

“Eric.”

“Were you sleeping in the laundry room last night? Specifically, around ten o’clock?

“Yeah. So?”

“Someone saw you and thought you were dead.”

Eric burst out laughing. “As you can see, I’m not.”

“Be careful with the heroin or you could end up that way.” Jackson had his camera in hand and took a quick picture.

“Hey! Why’d you do that?”

“To prove you’re not a corpse. Thanks.”

He hurried down the stairs before Eric could deny him permission to use the photo. Some days his job was so bizarre he felt more like a babysitter or counselor than an investigator.

Back in the car, he sat for a moment, working up the courage to drive to his parents’ old neighborhood, only blocks from where he lived now. He’d bought a house near his parents shortly after Katie was born so they would be close enough to spend time with their granddaughter. They’d only had a couple of years with her, and Katie didn’t remember them. Jackson had driven by the house twice in eleven years, just to see if Derrick was taking care of it. He started the Impala and headed toward his neighborhood. He’d called his brother that morning and no one had picked up. Jackson hadn’t left a message. Some things needed to be done in person.

As Jackson parked in front of 2353 Emerald, his chest tightened in a familiar squeeze of pain. He hadn’t felt it since he’d started taking the prednisone after his surgery. The CAT scan he’d had two weeks ago indicated the fibrotic growth around his aorta had shrunk a little, so he hoped this new pain was just stress. Jackson reached for his notepad but left his shoulder bag in the car. The crime scene was long gone.

He stepped out and pulled in a deep breath. It was just a house and Derrick was his brother, the kid he’d played soccer with in the backyard. The boy who’d taught him how to catch a snake and fly a kite and every other cool thing he’d done as a child.

Jackson noted the faded paint, the sunbaked lawn, the lack of petunias in the front planter. Evelyn and Clark Jackson would not be happy with the condition of their home.

A gray Lincoln Town Car sat in the driveway but nobody answered the door. Jackson still had the key his parents had given him twenty years ago, but it was at home in a bowl above his refrigerator. Derrick had likely changed the locks by now, anyway. Jackson took out his cell phone and tried calling his brother, but no answer. Jackson headed for the sidewalk, leaving a message as he strode away: “It’s Wade. Something important has come up. It’s about Mom and Dad’s murders. I need to talk to you. I tried calling and now I’m standing in your front yard. Please call me.”

A visual search of the neighborhood indicated the Graysons probably still lived across the street. The house had been painted recently, but it was still the same robin’s egg blue it had been for thirty years. Jackson crossed over, thinking how lucky he’d been to grow up in this quiet tree-lined neighborhood surrounded by parks and ball fields.

Mrs. Grayson answered the door, seeming more weathered, but still sporting the same permed hair and pink sweater. “Wade Jackson! Good grief, I don’t believe it.” She grabbed his forearm and squeezed. “Come in. Would you like some coffee?”

He had a policy of not drinking from an open container offered him by anyone he questioned, but this was Mrs. Grayson. He’d consumed plenty of raspberry Kool-Aid in this house as a kid and she hadn’t drugged or poisoned him then. “Sounds good. Black, please.”

He followed her to the kitchen and sat at the table. He was eager to get right to the point of his visit but he owed her some small talk. “How have you been?”

“I’m good. I had my hip replaced last year but my health is still excellent.” She knocked on the cupboard over the coffeemaker for luck. After a moment of quiet, she said, “Sam passed away and I miss him, but I keep busy with volunteer work.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”
How could he bring up his parents’ deaths now?

“What’s on your mind, Wade? Are you worried about your brother?”

“Is something wrong over there?”

“Not really. He’s just been a little wild since his wife left him.”

Jackson hadn’t known about the split. “What do you mean by wild? I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“I don’t want to sound like an old gossip,” she said, handing him the coffee, “but he comes home in the middle of the night and he has a different woman over every week. I think he’s drinking a lot too.”

Jackson was neither surprised nor concerned. Derrick had always liked to live on the edge. From the time his brother started driving at sixteen to when he married at twenty-five, Derrick had worried their mother sick. Jackson had tried to make up for it by being accountable. “I’m really here to ask about the day my parents were killed. I know it was long ago, but I have a new reason to think they put the wrong man in jail.”

“Good grief.” She plopped down in a chair. “But they caught that Mexican fella with the money and he took a plea bargain.”

“I visited him in prison and he claims he was coerced into a confession. He’s dying now and he wanted me to know the real killer got away.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do.”

“It’s a shame then.” She blew on her coffee. “How can I help you?”

“I want you to think about that day and remember everything you can. Did the police question you?”

“I came home from the library and there were cop cars all over the street. A patrol officer questioned me as I got out of my car, but clearly I hadn’t been here to see or hear anything.”

Jackson tried not to let his disappointment show. “Had you noticed anything different going on with Clark and Evelyn before that day? Unusual visitors? A change in behavior?” His parents had been the most predictable people in the world. His father had worked for the utility company for twenty-five years, and his mother had taught third grade for just as long.

Mrs. Grayson thought for a moment. “Your mother seemed distracted, maybe worried, the last time I talked to her.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“I did. She said everything was fine.” Mrs. Grayson gave him a sad smile. “She was stoic, wasn’t she?”

Jackson nodded, momentarily unable to speak. His washed down the lump in his throat with coffee. “What about when you left the house that day? Did you notice anything unusual? Strangers on the street? An unfamiliar car?” He realized he probably sounded desperate. The case was such a dead end.

“Can’t say that I did.” She shook her head. “I noticed the handyman was over at your parents working on that stone wall, but he had been there for days and I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Are any of the other neighbors who lived here at the time still around?”

“The Brickmyers still live right next door in the yellow house. They had just bought it a few months before.”

Mr. Grayson shuffled into the kitchen and Jackson almost dropped his coffee. Hadn’t she said her husband passed away?

“Ernie, you remember Wade Jackson, don’t you?” Mrs. Grayson got up to pour another cup.

Jackson stood and shook the old man’s hand. He was definitely the Mr. Grayson he’d seen at his parents’ funeral
. Who the hell was Sam?
As he stood there feeling awkward, he remembered Sam was their cat.

“Wade is here to ask about his parents’ murders,” Mrs. Grayson added. “He says the handyman didn’t do it.”

“I heard most of that.” Mr. Grayson gripped the table and eased slowly into a chair. “I was home that day.” He looked at Jackson. “I saw a car parked in front of the house next to your parents. The Tylers lived there then, but they weren’t home on the weekdays. And they drove a van, so I noticed the other car.

“What was the make?”

“A dark blue sedan. A Crown Victoria or a Lincoln, maybe.”

“Did you notice anything specific about the vehicle? Or get the license number?”

“It looked new and shiny clean, that’s what I remember.” Mr. Grayson worked his dentures into a better position. “And there was guy behind the wheel.”

“What did he look like?”

“Caucasian, with short light-colored hair. Could have been blond or gray or light brown. I only saw him briefly when I went out to get the mail.”

“How old?”

Mr. Grayson shrugged. “I’m not sure. He wasn’t young though. At least forty.”

“How was he dressed?”

“He had on a nice jacket, like a businessman. I think that’s why I noticed him. He also wore sunglasses.”

Why would a middle-aged businessman be parked next to his parents’ house?
Wearing sunglasses in late September?
The information was odd and probably irrelevant but Jackson jotted it all down in his notepad.

“How long was he there?”

“I’m not sure.” Mr. Grayson ran his gnarled hands through what was left of his gray hair. “I heard the shots. Only I didn’t realize they were shots at the time. I was pulling weeds in the side yard and I heard loud popping sounds from across the street.” Grayson’s voice was creaky and sluggish, and Jackson willed him to live long enough to finish the conversation.

Mr. Grayson sipped his coffee with shaky hands, then continued. “I looked up and didn’t see anything so I went back to pulling weeds. Then I heard the sound again. I glanced across the street, but there was no one around and nothing happening that I could see. I went inside to use the bathroom. When I came out, I heard a car drive away.”

Jackson pressed his teeth together and waited him out. He knew there was more to the story.

“I was curious so I went outside and looked toward 25th Avenue. I saw the blue sedan at the corner, turning left. I went back to pulling weeds. About twenty minutes later, a cop car came screaming down the street and all hell broke loose.”

Jackson remembered the anonymous call. “Did either of you call the police and report seeing Hector Vargas, the handyman, leaving their house?”

“No.” Mrs. Grayson spoke, but they both shook their heads.

“Did you see him leave?”

“No.”

Jackson looked at the old man. “Was Hector Vargas still over there working when you first saw the blue sedan?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you tell the detectives about the car?”

“Nobody ever asked me. The police picked up the handyman an hour later and he had your parents’ cash box. Everyone assumed he did it. I never gave the sedan another thought…until now.”

Jackson fought to hide his disgust. The detectives assigned to the case hadn’t even questioned the neighbors. They’d beaten a confession out of a thief instead. Jackson wondered how much Vargas’ ethnicity had sealed his fate.

Mrs. Grayson echoed his thoughts. “I suppose his being a Mexican worked against him.” She shook her head. “I’d like to think that couldn’t happen now.”

The department had become more politically correct in the last decade, but Jackson knew racial profiling still happened. He’d been guilty of it too in subtle ways. Everyone looked outside their own cultures and beliefs for someone to blame.

Yet what Santori and Bekker had done went way beyond profiling. They had not only failed to do their jobs, they’d abused a suspect and let the man who killed his parents get away.