Dying for Justice (7 page)

“Which detective?”

“Didn’t you say the ex-wife was keeping a journal? Why don’t you find it and see what’s in there first?”

McCray was trying not to name other officers. Evans wasn’t giving up. “Did you trust Bekker when you worked with him? What was your take on the guy?”

Another long silence. “He was an asshole. He pushed buttons with his co-workers and he got physical with suspects. I didn’t like working with him. One of the many reasons I transferred out of vice.”

“Is he capable of killing his wife?”

McCray grinned. “At times, we’re all capable of killing our spouses.”

Evans gave him a look.

“If his ex-wife says he attacked her, then what more do you need? Go to the DA and file charges.”

“It’s not that simple. Her assailant was wearing a ski mask, so she can’t positively identify him. And Bekker had an alibi. I’ve got nothing to take to the DA.”

McCray scowled. “So you’re going after his sexual transgressions to break down his character?”

Hot anger flashed in her face. “He wasn’t just cheating on his wife. He preyed on women who were in trouble and afraid of him and he forced them into sex. He’s worse than scum and needs to be locked up.”

“If what you say is true, then I agree. I just don’t know how to help you.”

“Give me the name of the detective who saw Bekker at the prostitute’s house.”

McCray hesitated but not for long. “Bohnert.

“No shit.” John Bohnert now worked in violent crimes but Evans didn’t know him well.

“That’s not who gave Bekker an alibi,” McCray said. “That was Pete Casaway.”

Casaway had retired last year. “Would he lie for Bekker?”

“If he was certain of his innocence, yes.” McCray’s eyes bore into hers. “If Jackson were in trouble, you would lie for him, wouldn’t you?”

She would do almost anything for Jackson, but McCray didn’t need to know that. “That depends on the situation.”

“What if his ex-wife died of an overdose and her parents said Jackson killed her? Then he came to you and said, ‘I was home alone but I need this to go away.’ Would you give him an alibi?”

Evans squirmed. “Probably.”

“Remember that when you talk to these guys. Bekker is their friend and a cop and they thought they were doing the right thing.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t tell anyone you got their names from me.”

“I won’t. Thanks for your help.”

“Be careful. This could turn against you very quickly.”

Chapter 9

Evans hurried across Pearl Street toward City Hall. The police department still occupied half of the white-brick structure, but not for long. The city had finally purchased a new building on Coburg Road and the department would move when the remodel was complete. She was excited about having more workspace but would miss the energy of being downtown. As she entered the parking lot below the building, sweat broke out under her light blue jacket. This was the warmest September she’d ever experienced in Eugene.

Evans stood by her car, undecided. To properly investigate the attack on Gina, she needed to visit the apartment complex where Gina had lived at the time and find out if any witnesses were still around. She needed to question Gina’s boyfriend at the time and rummage through the letters and files stored in the Stahls’ house. All of it seemed like a lot of work that would lead nowhere. On the other hand, building a case against Bekker for sexual assault would likely have better results. She was eager to talk to the prostitute, Trisha, and get her story on file. Before she went to her boss and called Sergeant Bekker a dirty cop and a killer, she needed something solid.

She called Pete Casaway, Bekker’s alibi for the night Gina went into a coma, and left a message. She didn’t mention Bekker in her message.

Evans made up her mind. Trisha Cronin’s address was nearby, so she’d make a quick stop on her way out to Gina’s old neighborhood.

Trisha’s apartment building was in an area of the Whittaker neighborhood called
heroin alley
by landlords and law enforcement. The once-white building hadn’t been painted or washed in a decade and the shrubs had died from neglect. Or maybe from the toxic piss of its residents, Evans thought, crinkling her nose as she climbed the stairs up to unit ten.

She knocked gently, trying not to sound like a cop.

Trisha answered, wearing a bathrobe and looking half asleep. She was thirty-something, a little doughy, and had once been pretty. Evans struggled for a way to describe her hair color when she started her notes. Fried-dyed-pink-blond?

“Ah shit.” Trisha tried to shut the door, but Evans shoved her foot and shoulder into the space.

“I’m not here to harass you. I want to help.”

“Bullshit. Cops are never here to help me.”

“I want to put Gary Bekker in jail.”

The pressure from the door eased. “Why?”

“It seems like a good place for him. Can I come in?”

Trisha weighed her decision for a long moment, then stepped back and opened the door.

Evans entered the dark apartment, surprised by how clean and uncluttered it was. Still, the stink of cat was evident. “Can we sit at the table?” She didn’t want cat hair on her clothes.

“I don’t have much time,” Trisha said. “I have an appointment soon.”

Right, an appointment.
“I know you talked to Gina Bekker about her ex-husband’s sexual abuse. I read her notes. I’d like to hear your story first hand.”

“That was years ago and nothing ever happened to Gary. But he pretty much leaves me alone now.” Trisha rolled her eyes. “I think he got bored with me.”

They moved into the small dining room, separated only by a change in flooring. “Would you like some tea?” Trisha asked.

“No thanks.”

Evans pulled her recorder from her bag and set it on the table. “Please state your name and the date of this conversation.”

“I don’t know if I want to go on record. He can still make trouble for me.”

“You’re not his only victim. If all of you speak up, we can put him away.”

The fear in her face gave way to a little hope. “I’m Trisha Cronin, but I don’t know the date. I think it’s September.”

Evans gave her name, the date, and their location, then pulled out her notepad. “When did you first meet Gary Bekker?”

“I think it was 2006, because that was the year my mother died and I was pretty messed up.” Trisha pulled her robe tighter, as if she were suddenly cold.

“Tell me what happened.”

Trisha related the same story Evans had read in Gina’s notebook, only with more detail and more swearing. The visits, rapes as she called them, continued for a few months after she had talked to Gina, then became less frequent. “I heard he started up with another woman. Her name’s Joni and she’s a heroin user who lost her kid to the state for a while.”

“Do you know of other women besides Joni? The more victims who speak up, the more likely we’ll get a conviction.”

“I was at the Whitebird Clinic one day and I heard a young girl named Serena talking about a cop who assaulted her when she was drunk. I think she’s in jail now on theft charges.”

“Do you know her last name?”

Trisha shook her head. “You need to go now. I have an appointment.”

Let’s not make the John wait.
Evans tried to keep her face impassive, surprised by the depth of her disgust with Trisha. Now she understood why the victims had never reported Bekker. Who would sympathize with a prostitute filing a complaint about sexual abuse? Certainly not one of the male detectives who worked the vice unit and had processed their fill of sex crimes. Evans made up her mind to find all of Bekker’s victims.

She thanked Trisha and got the hell out. The sun seemed especially bright after the dark apartment, so she pulled on sunglasses. What next? Her little mantra—What would Jackson do?—popped into her head and made her smile. Someday, when she was over him, she’d tell Jackson about mentally consulting his guidance the way others called on Jesus.

Work the case you’ve been assigned.
That’s what Jackson would tell her. Start with the basics and knock on the neighbors’ doors. Relieved that the Geezer had not been violated or stolen, Evans climbed in the car and headed for the Valley River condo where Gina used to live.

She pulled into Riverside Terrace and noted the security camera mounted to the corner of the gate. Would they have footage from two years ago? Not damn likely. The iron gate was open, so the barrier had to be more about aesthetics than security. She wondered if they closed and locked it at night. Evans found the manager’s sign, parked nearby, and climbed out.

The row of pristine white condos stretched along the riverbank and, for a moment, Evans was jealous of anyone lucky enough to live there. Then she remembered the river wasn’t so pretty in winter, which lasted a lot longer than summer.

She knocked on the manager’s door, heard someone respond, and waited a good five minutes. “Sorry about that, I was just finishing my routine.” The older woman wore stretchy yoga clothes and looked damn good for her age. “What can I do for you?”

Evans introduced herself. “I’m investigating an assault that happened in this complex two years ago. How long have you been the manager?”

“About six years. I don’t recall any assaults.”

“It was labeled an attempted suicide at the time. Her name is Gina Stahl and she came out of her coma recently.”

“Oh my God.” The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “I thought she died. She’s okay?”

“She will be.” Evans was pleased the manager had been around long enough to remember Gina. “What’s your name?”

“Raylin Jones. Why don’t you come in out of the heat?”

Once inside the converted office, Evans asked, “Are any of Gina’s old neighbors still here?”

“I’ll have to check. What unit was she in?”

“Number sixteen.”

Raylin moved to the desk and opened a file on her computer. “Steve and Gloria Hutchins have been in unit seventeen since 2005, so you can talk to them. But that’s it. The woman in unit fifteen moved out in 2009. She lost her job in the recession.”

“Will you give me the Hutchins’ phone number? In case they’re not home.”

“Sure, but they’re retired, so you’ll catch them at home.”

Steve and Gloria were both reading in their living room as she passed the big window. A picture of contentment, Evans thought. She didn’t see it often.

Gloria looked up just as Evans knocked. Through the glass, she watched the older woman hurry over. “Who is it?” she said through the door.

“Detective Evans, Eugene Police.”

The door opened a little. “I’d like to see your badge.”

Evans moved her jacket aside and showed her.

“What’s this about?”

“Gina Bekker, the woman who used to live next to you.”

Gloria sucked in her breath. “Did she die?”

“She woke up and claimed she was assaulted.”

“Gina came out of her coma?” Steve Hutchins had followed his wife to the door.

“I’d like to ask some questions.” Evans pulled out her notepad, hoping they would invite her in. The temperature had hit ninety again and she wearing a goddamn suit jacket.

“Come in.” Gloria had an edge of excitement in her voice. “It’s so amazing she woke up.” She gestured for Evans to sit on the couch across from their reading recliners. Every bit of fabric in the room, including the Hutchins’ clothing, was in a shade of beige or pink. It was all a little sterile and Evans wanted to spill some coffee to make herself feel more comfortable.

“Were you home the evening Gina went to the hospital?”

“I’m the one who found her and called 911.” Gloria’s eyes danced, and Evans swore she could hear the old woman’s heart pound with excitement.

“What made you go next door?”

“It was Tuesday night and sometimes Gina came over and watched recorded Castle shows with us. I went over to tell her we were starting one, but she didn’t answer.”

“We knew she was home,” Steve cut in, “because we’d heard music earlier.”

Gloria shot him a look. It was her story. “I knocked harder and the door came open a little. It wasn’t latched, so I pushed it open a little more and called out.” Gloria’s hands twisted in her lap. “I got a bad feeling. Gina listened to classical music when she was depressed and she’d been playing Bach earlier. So I went in. We’d become pretty good friends and I was worried.” Gloria caught Evans’ eyes, looking for approval. Evans nodded.

“I found her unconscious on her bed. I could tell by her color and stillness something was wrong. Then I saw the empty pill bottle and called 911.”

“Did anything in Gina’s apartment seem out of place?”

“Nothing except the door not being latched.”

Evans made notes as quickly as she could. “Did either of you see anyone hanging around the complex that day or that evening?”

“No,” Steve answered. “This is a secure building.”

“Did you hear anything unusual from her apartment before you went over?” This question was directed at Gloria.

“No. Just the music earlier.”

“Had Gina ever mentioned her ex-husband?”

They snorted in unison. “Oh yes.” Gloria nodded in big gestures. “She hated him. He cheated on her and gave her VD. That’s how she found out.”

“Gina said he verbally abused her too,” the husband added, trying to get a word in.

“Gary was being difficult about the divorce as well.” Gloria pressed her lips together. “I felt bad for Gina. Her lawyer was costing her a fortune.”

Evans suddenly wondered about Gina’s motive in blaming her ex.
Was it simply about revenge? Was Gina mentally unstable?
“You said Gina played music when she was depressed. How often did she get depressed?

“When she first moved in, we heard the classical stuff a lot. Then she started getting out more and we could tell she felt better. Until that day, she hadn’t been depressed in weeks.”

“Did you ever meet Gary Bekker or see him here at the complex?”

“Oh yes. He used to sit out in the parking lot just to upset her. And he succeeded.” Gloria leaned forward. “That wasn’t the first time Gina overdosed.”