Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (20 page)

Jackson let the victim’s head roll back. What would the ME and the pathologist say about this death? A fistfight, followed by a blow to the head, followed by the slit throat was his prediction. The cut concerned him. Was the killer imitating Mazari’s murder in an attempt to throw them off? Or had he intended to slit his throat all along, but Pittman had fought back? And why did he assume it was a man? Because of the fistfight? Sierra was a big
woman and seemed aggressive. But she was also likely still in jail this morning. They didn’t hold arraignments on Sunday.

Jackson reached for his camera and snapped a dozen pictures of the body. He photographed the cream-colored vinyl floor surrounding the corpse, as well as the walls. He could detect no blood spatter, but the vertical print of the pale-green wallpaper might be camouflaging it.

Schak, who’d been crawling on the floor between the front door and the dining area, stood and came over. “I found a little piece of fresh mud, and I got photos of a partial muddy shoe print.”

“Excellent.” Jackson stood. “The man’s ID and bank cards are gone.”

“Cell phone too?”

“Yes. It’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” From the doorway, Evans pulled on booties, then hurried in. Behind her, another patrol unit screeched to a stop on the street.

Jackson repeated the information as she joined them in the dining room.

“His wife must have taken most of the furniture,” Evans commented, looking around at the sparse furnishings. “What’s your working theory?”

“Without the Mazari murder, this would look like a home invasion, with the ID and credit cards taken for future fraudulent use. But I’m starting to think both murders were committed for the seven grand stolen from the old woman’s account.”

“Molly Pershing,” Evans supplied. She squatted next to the body. “He took a beating first. And that cut in his throat looks almost like an afterthought.”

“An imitation of Mazari’s murder,” Jackson added.

Schak shook his head. “Do we still think Sierra looks good for the first one?”

“I don’t know.” Jackson felt like they had to rethink everything.

“Did they release Sierra five minutes after I booked her in?” Evans hands balled into fists. “If they did, she could have done this.”

“Lammers said she’d check the jail and call me.” Jackson scrambled to form a plan. “Evans, talk to the neighbors. The killer probably came and went in a vehicle. Schak, start searching the house for a cell phone, computer, and personal information. I’ll keep examining the body and the surrounding area until Gunderson gets here, then we’ll start on subpoenas. We need banking and cell phone information for both victims.”

“You really think it’s about the money?” Evans looked skeptical.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Not yet, but I think this could be a personal falling out. Pittman’s knuckles are swollen.” She pointed at the corpse’s hands. “They fought each other with testosterone flowing. I think Sierra might be a factor in this death too.”

“I don’t doubt it. We’ll get back to this discussion later. Let’s process the scene now.”

“I’m on it.” Evans turned and bolted from the house, nearly running into Rich Gunderson.

The ME crossed the living room with his tool bag in hand. “What the hell is going on? Two murders in three days? And why are you in my crime scene?” Eyebrows furrowed, black shirt wrinkled, Gunderson looked like a man who’d had a late night.

Schak headed for the hallway, and Jackson stepped back into the narrow kitchen.

“We found the body when we came to question him,” Jackson explained. “I think he’s been dead since last night.”

“I’ll let you know.” Gunderson’s tone was curt. He set down his bag and began to take photos.

Jackson didn’t feel contrite about examining the body. Being first on the scene was a rare opportunity. He looked around the kitchen. The attacker had searched the cupboards, leaving them open and the contents disheveled. Only a few dishes were in the sink, but empty beer bottles filled the space next to the sink. Two bottles sat apart near the end of the counter. One was still half full. He left them for the technicians to transport to the lab. The killer’s fingerprints could be on one.

Jackson noticed a small collection of medicine bottles on the shelf above the sink. He picked them up one at time: Relafen, an anti-inflammatory; Sonata, a sleeping pill; and Trexall, which he wasn’t sure about. He bagged them individually as evidence. As he started around the end of the counter to backtrack to the living room, a red spot caught his eye. The sharp-edged corner of the pale-green laminate counter had dried blood on it. He stepped closer. A bit of white goop was stuck on the point.
Was that brain tissue?

“Gunderson? You need to look at this. I think our vic may have hit his head on this corner.”

Jackson took close-up photos of the counter’s edge while the ME stood up, grunting a little as he did.

Gunderson grabbed a magnifier from his bag and held it over the corner. After a long moment, he said, “Definitely blood. Could also be brain tissue.” He grabbed a tiny vial and tweezers and carefully collected the material. “I didn’t see a matching wound, but I’m just getting started.”

“It’s behind his right ear,” Jackson said.

Gunderson lifted an eyebrow. “You moved his head?”

“Only a bit.”

The ME rolled his eyes and kneeled back down by the body.

“Have you taken his temperature?” Jackson asked.

“Yes. He cooled a little slower than our last victim, but the TOD frame is nearly the same—between eight thirty and ten thirty last night. That’s my best guess until we know more about what’s in his bloodstream.”

“Thanks.” Jackson moved on to search the living room.

CHAPTER 20

Evans started with the other side of the duplex. The homes shared an adjoining wall, but the other front door was around the corner. Patrol officers had blocked off the street in front of the victim’s house, but cars occasionally moved past on Kings Street. The only decent thing about working cases on a Sunday morning, Evans thought, was that people were often home. Oregon was the least churchgoing state in the nation.

A teenage girl answered the door wearing plaid pajama pants and a rumpled white T-shirt. Evans had seen an Albertson’s clerk in the same outfit yesterday. “I’m Detective Evans, Eugene Police. Are your parents home?”

The girl’s eyes went wide, and she grabbed the end of her long blonde hair and began to twist. “My mom’s working. Why do you want to see her?”

“We’re investigating something that happened next door.” Evans decided if the girl was old enough to look that guilty about something, she was old enough to answer questions. “May I come in?”

“Is this about the party at Josh’s house?” The girl was near tears.

“No. It’s about your neighbor on the other side of the duplex.”

“You mean Jake?” Her shoulders slumped in relief, and she stepped back to let Evans in.

“What’s your name?”

“Hannah Burke.” She sucked in a nose full of snot.

Evans resisted the urge to suggest she find a tissue.

The living room was filled with floral prints, knickknacks, and scented candles, so she nodded toward the dining room. “Can we sit at the table?”

“Want some coffee?” Hannah plopped down on a chair, as if exhausted.

“No, thanks. Were you home last night?” Evans joined her at the round wooden table, appointed with pale-blue fabric placemats. The woman of the house was really trying.

“Yeah. I’ve got a cold, so I didn’t go out.”

“Did you see or talk to Jake?”

“No. He keeps to himself.”

“Do you know if he was home?”

“He was home. I heard the TV. And the shouting.”

Now they were getting somewhere.
“What time did you hear shouting?”

“It was about halfway through
Desperate Housewives
, so around nine thirty, I guess. I had to turn the volume up.”

“You were home by yourself?”

“Yeah. My mom’s a waitress, so she works all weekend.”

“What time did your mom get home?”

“I was asleep. But on Saturday night, she usually works ’til eleven or twelve.”

Probably no help to them
. “Did you recognize the voices you heard?”

“I know Jake’s, but not the other guy’s.”

Evans jotted down
male visitor
. “Did you hear a car? Do you know when the other guy arrived?”

“No.” Hannah scratched her head. “You know we can’t see the front of his house, right? It’s around the corner.”

Evans ignored her sass. “Could you tell what they argued about?”

“No way.” She let out a short laugh. “I’ve learned to tune it out. Before she moved out, Jake and his wife argued a lot too. We just ignore it.”

“Did you hear any names? Any specific words?”

Hannah blew her nose on a tissue she’d had wadded up in her hand. Evans tried not to cringe.

“It was kind of muffled, but I did hear the other guy say, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’” Hannah dropped her pitch to imitate a distressed man. With her head cold and nasal tone, it was comical.

“Were those his exact words?” Evans made quick notes.

“I think so.”

“What else did you hear?”

Hannah shrugged. “Nothing really. I went to sleep after that ’cause I drank a bunch of NyQuil.”

Evans gave Hannah a business card. “I may have more questions later. For now, is there anything else you can tell me about Jake that might be important?”

“Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. It always freaks me out. Mom says it’s probably PTSD.”

Evans thanked her and left, noting the young woman had not bothered to ask what had happened to Jake. Evans trotted back around the corner, passed Pittman’s place, and tried the house on the other side, but no one was home.

Directly across the street, she knocked on a white Craftsman house with a large covered patio. An older woman answered the door,
wearing a magenta caftan. She had a light-purple rinse in her gray hair too. Evans liked her style. Suppressing a smile, she introduced herself. “I’d like to ask some questions about last night. May I come in?”

“I’d rather sit on the porch. That way I can smoke.” The woman stepped out the door, closed it behind her, and pulled a pack of smokes from a pocket deep in her caftan.

Evans reluctantly sat on the edge of a damp deck chair, notepad in hand. “What’s your name?”

“Rose Middleton.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled like it was oxygen after an underwater swim.

“Were you home last night?”

“I’m always home, except for lunches with my sister.” Rose kept her upper lip rigid. She was likely hiding stained teeth, and it made her a little hard to understand.

“Did you know Jake Pittman, who lived directly across from you?” Evans gestured at the duplex.

“You make it sound like he’s dead.” Rose made a weird sound in her throat, then started hacking up phlegm. “Is that what’s going on over there?”

Evans longed for a witness who didn’t make her wish she had a mask over her face. “Jake was killed last night. Do you know anything about it?”

“I didn’t know him. He’d only been in the neighborhood a few years.”

“Did you see or hear anything across the street last night? Maybe see a vehicle parked over there?”

“I did see a truck. It was light colored. And loud. That’s why I looked out the window. It sounded like it was parking in my front yard.”

“What time?”

“Around eight thirty, I think. I was reading, so I lost track of time.”

“Did you see anyone get out of the truck?”

Rose shook her head. “I just glanced out, saw it across the street, and went back to reading.”

“Did you hear any shouting?”

“No.”

“Did you hear the truck leave?”

“I did hear it start up again. As I said, it was a loud piece of crap. But I have no idea what time that was.”

“How long would you say it was there? Twenty minutes? An hour? More?”

“I really don’t know. But probably less than an hour.”

“Had you seen the truck there before?”

“Maybe once before, a month or so ago.”

Evans was eager to get back to the crime scene. The truck owner might not be hard to track down. “Thanks for your help.” She handed Rose a card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

Evans crossed the blocked street, noting that the crime lab’s white van had arrived. Nothing like a homicide to disrupt a neighborhood for the day.

Jasmine Parker and Joe Berloni, two crime-scene techs, had joined the group in the small house. Jasmine was using the UV light to search for blood, while Joe took fingerprints from the beer bottles.

Her partners stood in the living room, looking frustrated.

“What have we found?” she asked, joining them.

“Not a damn thing,” said Jackson, who rarely swore. “No cell phone, no computer, few personal papers. There’s a power supply in the bedroom that indicates Pittman owned a laptop, but it’s not here.”

“The perp either wanted to find something in the victim’s devices or hide his connections from us,” she offered.

“Or both. What did you learn?”