“Why would she try to kill herself?”
“She was depressed and crazy.”
“Is that why you stalked her and threatened to kill her?”
Bekker shifted in his chair. “I didn’t stalk her. I just wanted to see who she left me for.”
“You admit you threatened her?”
“I admit nothing.”
“Where were you that night?”
“Drinking at the Sixth Street Bar with Pete Casaway. This has already been established.”
Jackson tried to remember what Evans had reported. “Casaway now says he didn’t see you after seven that night.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Evans recorded the conversation. You have no alibi.”
“Why is that bitch Evans suddenly all over me?” Bekker’s eyes and nostrils flared, and Jackson got a glimpse of his hatred for women.
“Does Evans remind you of Gina?”
“Fuck you.
Jackson sat quietly, staring down Bekker. The small grey room seemed to shrink and he breathed from his diaphragm to counteract the tension. The more time he spent in this closet, the more difficult it became. After a minute, Stricklyn strode in.
Bekker laughed. “IA? Really?”
Stricklyn stood over Bekker, his voice deadly quiet. “You’re charged with assaulting a police officer. You’ll get five years just for that. Throw in attempted homicide and sexual assault, and you’re looking at twenty years, minimum. It’s time to cooperate.”
Jackson watched Bekker process the charges and calculate how much they knew. Finally the inmate said, “I didn’t assault a police officer. Detective Evans struck me and I defended myself.”
Jackson let his disgust show. “Why would she do that?”
“She’s an aggressive bitch.”
“What were you doing outside that apartment?” Stricklyn asked.
“Minding my own business.”
“Tell us about the altercation. How did it start?” This was Stricklyn’s interview now.
“Why should I tell you anything? What’s in it for me?”
“We’d like to keep your cases from going to trial and becoming a media frenzy. The DA is willing to drop the assault-of-an-officer charge if you plead to assaulting your wife. We’ll knock it down from attempted murder. It’s a sweet deal and you should take it.”
“I didn’t assault anyone, so no thanks.”
Stricklyn glanced at his notes. “Let’s talk about Trisha Cronin. When did you first meet her?”
A flash of panic registered in Bekker’s eyes. “I’m not answering any more questions until I see a lawyer.”
“Right now, the whole department thinks you’re a rapist. That’s going to stick unless you tell us your side of the story.”
“They believe a hooker?” Bekker tried to look scornful, but Jackson heard distress in his voice.
“And a heroin addict. These women are glad to tell their stories now that someone is listening.” Stricklyn tapped his notepad on the table. “Attacking Evans outside one of your victims’ apartment made you look guilty as hell. Judges and juries hate dirty cops, so your lawyer will advise you to stay out of court.” Stricklyn stood. “I’ll get you a glass of water and let you think about how you want to play this.”
Jackson was glad to get out of the room, yet he hated to give up the interrogation before they’d made progress. Still, Bekker was not his focus…unless he was the man in the blue sedan… who had assassinated his victims with kill shots, then came back later to investigate the crime. It was possible, but so far, he had no reason to think that.
“Did you get anything useful?” Stricklyn asked, as they stood in the hall.
“I’m now considering the possibility that my parents were a professional hit, as unlikely as that seems.” Jackson started toward the break room. “I’ll get Bekker some water while you confer with Lammers.”
Stricklyn laughed. “We’re not getting him anything. Let’s see how he likes it.”
* * *
“That motherfucker! I can’t believe he’s saying I hit him first.” Evans now realized why Lammers wouldn’t let her in with Bekker. She might thump him.
“Would you stop bouncing? You’re making my blood pressure spike.” Lammers turned to her as they stood side by side in the conference room, watching the monitor. “You got pictures of your injuries, correct?”
“Jackson took them when I was in the ER, so I have a paper trail too.”
“Good.” Lammers touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Bekker has lost all credibility. He’ll do time for assaulting you.”
Evans watched Jackson and Stricklyn leave the interrogation room and struggled to get her emotions under control. She had to stay professional. She’d gone over to Full City for coffee while the guys picked up Bekker and now the caffeine was working against her. “Even without the shit he’s saying about me, Bekker seems a little off, like he might have a mental problem.”
“You think?” Lammers cast skeptical eyes down at her.
Evans ignored the sarcasm. “His hostility toward me is irrational. What if he makes bail? If he does, I want a twenty-four-hour watch on both him and Gina.”
“Don’t worry, if he makes bail, we’ll pick him up on new charges.”
“Good to know.”
On the monitor, Bekker suddenly turned to the camera and made a kissing gesture.
Evans hated and feared him more than anyone she’d ever known…except maybe her father. “Is Bekker setting himself up to be incompetent to stand trial?”
“We’ll see.”
Jackson and Stricklyn came into the conference room, and they all sat at the new table the department had recently brought in. The hard metal chairs had not been replaced.
“What do you think?” Jackson asked. “Did you pick up anything we might have missed?”
Lammers responded, “When you asked Bekker about stalking and threatening Gina, he got very uncomfortable. He squirmed in his chair, then tried to cover it by leaning back and acting casual. I think we can assume Gina is telling the truth about that.”
“I’ll hit that subject again in the next round,” Stricklyn said.
“He also seemed upset when you mentioned that his peers in the department thought he was a rapist,” Evans commented. “I think you can use that as leverage too.” She looked at Stricklyn. “You told him the DA was willing to drop the charge of assaulting me. Have you talked to Slonecker?”
“I made that up. We’re not dropping it.”
“Damn straight. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t back off. He’s a psychopath.”
“Exactly why you’re not in there,” Lammers said.
After another ten minutes of strategizing, Lammers and Stricklyn headed to the interrogation room.
Jackson and Evans stood near the monitor watching Bekker. His eyes were closed and his body slack, as if he had dozed off.
“Look at that fucker,” Evans said. “Only the guilty can sleep in an interrogation room.”
“True enough. The innocent are too worried.”
Evans used the opportunity to pick Jackson’s brain. “Now that Bekker’s in custody, what should I do next on this case?”
“Have you talked to all the possible witnesses who might have seen Bekker in the vicinity the night Gina was assaulted?”
“I haven’t tracked down the neighbor who moved yet.”
“See if you can find him or her. What about video? Does her apartment complex have cameras? Maybe Bekker or his vehicle got caught on tape somewhere.”
“Great ideas. What’s next for you, Jackson?”
“Going through at my parents’ phone records and questioning a loan shark.”
They watched as Lammers and Stricklyn got Bekker talking about the women he’d victimized. Only, in his warped perspective, they were just friends. Fuck buddies. Evans felt queasy listening to him. “I’m going back to work,” she said, heading for the door.
Chapter 16
Wednesday, September 8, 8:25 a.m.
Sophie flashed her ID badge at the security camera, entered the Willamette News building, and hurried into the lunchroom to pick up a copy of the morning’s paper. The cafeteria had been closed a year earlier after the bulk of the layoffs, but they’d left the lunchroom open. She grabbed a newspaper from one of the tables, said hello to the entertainment reporter, and trotted up the open staircase. On the way, she noted all the empty work stations on the first floor. So many people had been laid off, the newspaper had moved the remaining support staff upstairs and was trying to rent out the first level for cash. The once busy, noisy office was dying and it was damn sad. But the truth was, she wouldn’t trade her iPhone, iPad, or Kindle to get it all back. She loved new technology and she’d find a way to keep her career going too.
She clicked on her computer, then laid the paper open on her desk. Her story about Gina Stahl was on the front page of the City section and Sophie scanned it to see how it flowed. She quickly realized the layout editor had cut selective chunks of her copy to make it fit a limited space.
Shit.
She hated when they butchered her careful transitions. She read the paragraph referencing Gina’s accusations.
Stahl says her attacker wore a ski mask, but the victim believes the assault was carried out by her ex-husband.
Stahl says she was collecting evidence about her ex-husband’s criminal activities and that he tried to kill her to silence her.
The police are investigating various leads
.
It was a little choppy, because someone had edited out the fact that the victim’s ex was a police officer.
Sophie grabbed her phone and called Detective Evans again. She wished she had Evans’ cell number instead of her desk phone, because so far, Evans had not called her back. Sophie wanted to know the names of the women Gary Bekker had victimized so she could interview them, but she suspected the detective wouldn’t tell her. She would have to visit Gina again and reassure her that she would not use the women’s names in print. The paper had a policy of not naming the victims of sex crimes and Sophie fully supported it.
“What are you working on this morning?” Karl Hoogstad, her editor, clumped up behind her. He was round in the middle and bald on top, except for a strip of gray hair across the back of his head. Sophie tried not to hold it against him.
“I’m heading over to the care center to talk to the coma woman again. I want to dig into the sex crimes she says her ex-husband, the cop, committed. I think this could be the biggest story we follow this year.”
“Okay. I trust your instincts.”
Sophie’s heart about burst with pride. It had taken her years to earn some respect at the paper. Her intuition on the story of two missing women last spring had netted her an eye-witness account of the perp’s apprehension. Hoogstad had apparently not forgotten. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“I’ll still want to see each story before it goes to layout.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he walked away, her phone rang. Hoping it was Evans, she grabbed it. “This is Sophie.”
“Roger Norquist, returning your call. You’re going to run a story about my fundraiser?”
“Just a short piece.” Sophie had lost all interest in the politician, but decided to get a quote while she had him on the phone. “Why are you starting your campaign so early? Are you worried about your ability to win next year’s election?”
“I’m not officially campaigning, just fundraising, and I’m not worried. I plan to start early, work hard, and win this time.”
“You lost the Senate race in 2006. What’s different for you now?”
“I’m more in tune with voters, and the mood of the public is turning more conservative. Voters are tired of big government and big spending. My platform–”
Sophie cut him off. “I’m sorry, but I only have the space for a sentence or two. Next fall, when your campaign is in full swing, we’ll talk again.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
She hung up, glad to get off the phone and back to her juicy story about the psycho cop.
* * *
At his desk, Jackson keyed the loan shark’s name into the criminal database and discovered Ray Durkin had served three and a half years in the Oregon State Correctional Facility on charges of assault and extortion. He’d been incarcerated in October of 2003 and released in April of 2007. Which meant Durkin had gone to prison years after his loan dealings with Derrick. Jackson was relieved that his brother’s judgment wasn’t completely worthless. Still, Derrick had borrowed a chunk of cash from someone he’d met in a strip club, who later went to prison. Sometimes it was hard to believe he and Derrick had the same DNA.
Durkin had fulfilled his parole terms and had no criminal history since. After failing to find Durkin in the citizen database, Jackson googled his name and was surprised to discover the ex-con was working as mountain-bike race promoter. Jackson searched the Cascade Mountain Races website but couldn’t find a phone number, only an email contact. “Crap.”
“What’s going on?” Schak heard him swear and rolled his chair over.
“My only lead has no address and no phone number that I can locate.”
“Who is it?” Schak knew Jackson was working his parents’ case.
“Ray Durkin. He was a loan shark back then. Now he’s a promoter for mountain bike races.”
“Ray Durkin was a loan shark?” Schak looked stunned, an expression Jackson had never seen on his face before.
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him. He’s not just a promoter. He hosts mountain bike races on his property and donates a percentage of the profit to the Big Brother program.”
Jackson suppressed a groan. “How do you know this?”
“Remember when my son was into mountain biking? I watched a couple races up there.” Schak looked over Jackson’s shoulder at the website on the monitor. “I’ll be damned. Durkin’s an ex-con.”
“And a suspect in my parents’ homicides.”
“What’s his connection?”
“He loaned money to my brother Derrick, then threatened him when he didn’t pay. Derrick moved in with Mom and Dad the day before they were killed.”
“Jesus.” Schak shuddered. “Are you going up there to see Durkin? He has a cabin on his property off Murdock Road.
“How do I find it?”
“Take Fox Hollow to Murdock, then take the second or third gravel road on the left. I think there’s a sign.”
“Thanks.” The fax machine near the hallway jumped to life and started spitting out paper. “Maybe that’s my phone records.”
Searching and sorting phone numbers was the most tedious aspect of his job. His parents had not made or received that many calls in the weeks prior so it wasn’t a worst-case scenario. Nearly a third of the calls were to or from Derrick. Jackson knew his brother and mother had been close, but he hadn’t realized they talked on the phone that much. He tried to remember how often his mother had called him. Maybe once a month, to invite him and his family over for Sunday dinner.
He suppressed the thought and kept keying in numbers. The outgoing calls were to his mother’s sisters, to a doctor’s office, and to the utility company. Some of the numbers for the outgoing calls were no longer listed or no longer in service. The incoming calls were more diverse. On the evening before the murders, they’d received a call from a company called Valley Fresh. Jackson googled the name and discovered it was a bakery and cereal business that had been in Eugene for sixty-five years. The call had come in at 6:07 p.m., and he assumed it was some kind of sales pitch. Earlier that day, they had also received calls from an insurance company and the Democratic headquarters.
On September 21, two days before the murders, only two calls were listed. One at 5:17 p.m. from EWEB, where his father had worked. Most likely his dad was calling home to see if his wife needed anything at the store. A second call came in at 8:15 that evening. Jackson entered the digits. A business named popped up and gave his heart a little jump. Lucky Numbers. The strip bar owned by Seth Valder, an associate of Ray Durkin. Had Durkin called from the bar looking for Derrick? Or had he started harassing Derrick’s parents for the money?
Jackson spent another twenty minutes keying in phone numbers, then lost patience with the process. He was eager to talk to Ray Durkin, so he mapped Murdock Road on the computer to see where it met Fox Hollow, then headed out. It was long trip and he hoped like hell Durkin would be around.
Jackson drove out East Amazon, a long narrow street heading toward the south hills. The weather had cooled a little, so he opened his window and enjoyed the end-of-summer air. He turned on Fox Hollow and tried to remember the last time he’d been in this part of Eugene. As he passed the Cascade Raptor Center, where they rescued and nurtured birds of prey, he realized that was it. He’d taken Katie and a friend to see the owls and falcons on her twelfth birthday.
Murdock turned out to be a hard-packed gravel road and Jackson drove it slowly, watching for the Cascade Mountain Races sign. He spotted it tucked into a V in the road, and laurel had started to grow over it. Jackson turned onto a loosely packed gravel road and slowed down even more. He wondered how often Durkin made a trip into town.
A half mile later, the road dead-ended into a large gravel parking area. Off to the right sat a large white truck with KSL Construction lettered on the side. Beyond it, the framework for a two-story house rose toward the sky, and Jackson heard the rhythmic pounding of hammer on nails. A log cabin was nestled into a grove of fir trees at the other end of the gravel lot.
A dark blue sedan was parked in front of the cabin. A shiver ran up Jackson’s spine. It had been eleven years and Durkin had spent three of them in jail. Was it possible this was the car that had been parked outside his parents’ house that day?
Jackson climbed out of his vehicle, touching his weapon out of habit. Barking dogs descended on him in a mad rush. He reached for his Taser and realized he’d left it in the car. Two tan pit bulls and a big black mixed breed formed a half circle around him, barking aggressively. The noise was nerve-wracking.
“Back off!” Jackson yelled and drew his Sig Saur to take some measure of control. The scar through his eyebrow was compliments of an angry unleashed dog.
A man came running up from the direction of the construction. “Quiet, boys!”
The dogs went silent but didn’t move.
Muscles bulged under the man’s t-shirt and his brow dripped with sweat. He was forty-something with a dark blond ponytail, sun-bronzed skin, and tinted glasses. “Sorry about the dogs,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Are you Ray Durkin?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“I have some questions about a loan you made eleven years ago.”
Durkin looked amused. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. Can we go inside somewhere?” Jackson wanted to get out of the sun and away from the dogs.
“Okay. Let’s get this over with.” Durkin started toward the cabin and the dogs followed. Jackson glanced back at the construction site to see if they were being watched. A second man tossed wood scraps in a big green trash bin and seemed to pay no attention to Jackson’s presence.
At the door of the cabin, Jackson said, “I’d like the dogs to stay outside.”
“They’re harmless.” Durkin grinned.
Jackson started to dislike him. “Leave them outside.”
“Stay.”
The dogs plopped on the low-slung deck.
Inside, the cabin was cool and the main room held three couches. A big fireplace took up one wall and the interior reminded Jackson of a ski lodge. Durkin went to the small adjacent kitchen and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He sat at the table and gestured for Jackson to join him.
“What loan and why now?” Durkin asked, as Jackson sat down.
“In 2000, you loaned money to Derrick Jackson. I want to know the details.”
Durkin looked blank. “That was a long time ago. Give me a clue.”
“He borrowed the money for a solar panel business.”
Durkin’s eyes clouded, as if he remembered something painful. “He’s your brother, right?”
“Yep.”
“I loaned him ten thousand and he only paid back six of it. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve got a whole new life here.”
Either Derrick had lied about the amount of the loan or Durkin was lying now. “You just let it go? Four thousand dollars?”
“Circumstances changed.”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean.” Durkin took a long pull of his beer. “We both know your parents were murdered around that time. Suddenly the cops and the media were all over that house and Derrick was grieving and dysfunctional. I wrote off the four thousand and moved on.”
“Bullshit. Derrick says you threatened him.”
“That was before. It’s also the nature of the alternative loan business.”
“Where did you get the ten grand?”
“I was doing a nice business. I had cash in the bank.”
“You called the Jacksons’ house two days before the murders. Who did you talk to?”
“I don’t remember.” Durkin glanced away.
“Don’t lie to me. What did you say to Evelyn Jackson?”
“I never spoke to her.”
Jackson decided Durkin was a pathological liar. “Why did you call her house?”
“I was looking for Derrick. He still owed me money and he was hiding.”
“What did you threaten my parents with?”
Durkin sat forward and tried to look earnest. “I admit, I broke a few fingers and I cheated a few people. I also did time for it. But I never threatened anyone’s family.”
“Where were you on the afternoon of September 23, 2000?”
Durkin’s mouth opened in surprise. “You think I killed them?”
“Where were you at the time of the murders?”
“I don’t remember. It was eleven years ago.”
“What kind of car were you driving then?”
“The same one I have now. I had just bought it. Why?”
“Someone saw it parked outside my parents’ house the day they were killed.”
Durkin shook his head. “Not my car.”
“Then you won’t mind submitting a DNA sample for comparison. It’s an opportunity to clear yourself.”