Dying for Justice
Novels by L.J. Sellers
Detective Jackson Series
Secrets to Die For
Thrilled to Death
Passions of the Dead
Dying for Justice
Liars, Cheaters & Thieves
Standalone Thrillers
The Sex Club
The Baby Thief
The Arranger
The Suicide Effect
Nonfiction
Write First, Clean Later:
Blogs, Essays, & Writing Advice
DYING FOR JUSTICE
Copyright © 2011 by L.J. Sellers
All rights reserved. Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the author.
eBook ISBN 978-0-9832138-4-0
Published in the United States of America
Spellbinder Press
Eugene, OR 97402
ljsellers.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
Cover art by Gwen Thomsen Rhoads,
http://www.gwenrhoads.com/
Digital Editions by:
booknook.biz
Contents
Novels by L.J. Sellers
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Excerpt from The Arranger
Chapter 1
Sunday, September 5, 8:05 a.m.
Gina opened her eyes, taking in the white blanket and blue-scrub nurse. Her first thought was:
This is a hospital.
Her second thought was:
Someone tried to kill me.
She wanted to speak but her throat was dry. “Water, please,” she managed to say, sounding weak and scratchy.
The nurse jumped, eyes popping open in surprise. She fumbled in her pocket for a cell phone and ran from the room. Gina wanted to call after her but she had no strength. She’d been half-awake off and on for what seemed like weeks, but this was the first time someone was in the room when she had the clarity and strength to speak.
How long had she been in the hospital?
The nurse returned after a few minutes with more medical people—a woman in a white doctor’s coat and a man in a suit. The nurse offered Gina some water, and the woman in white said, “I’m Dr. Ellison. Do you know where you are?”
“A hospital?”
“Not exactly.” The doctor smiled gently.
A wave of apprehension rolled over Gina.
“This is a long-term care facility.”
Dread seeped into her fragile bones. “How long have I been here?”
The doctor hesitated. “Two years.”
Two years?
Gina closed her eyes. No. This was just another strange dream. She’d had a lot of unpleasant dreams lately.
“Gina, stay with us.”
The voice sounded real. The blanket between her fingers felt soft, textured, and real. The feeding tube in her belly ached with real pain. Gina opened her eyes again. “Two years?” She remembered being forty-four. That would make her forty-six now.
“I know this is difficult to process, but the important thing is that you survived. And now you’re awake.” The doctor kept smiling.
A terrifying memory flooded Gina’s senses, making her heart pound. The masked man had been in her dreams sometimes, but this was different. Gina practiced the words in her head first, then struggled to say, “He tried to kill me.”
The group at her beside registered a collective look of surprise, followed by disbelief. Again, the doctor was the first to speak. “Your file says you took an overdose of Valium and Demerol. Do you remember that?”
“No.” Gina shook her head. Her brain felt fuzzy, as if she were about to drift off, but she desperately wanted to say something. “I was attacked.”
The medical people looked at each other, puzzled. The man in the suit said, “There’s no record of that in your file.”
The nurse gently touched Gina’s arm. “Would you like me to call the police?”
Gina would have laughed but she didn’t have the energy. Two years had passed and the bastard would likely get away with it.
Was anything left of her life out there?
Despair washed over her and she fought back tears. “Yes. Call the cops.”
“I’ll do it now.” The nurse left the room.
The man in the suit followed, saying, “Let’s keep this low-key.”
Gina fought to stay awake. She’d been asleep for so long. Yet a wave of fog rolled over her and she drifted. Before she went under again, a small piece of her life before this room bubbled to the surface. She’d been compiling evidence against her soon-to-be-ex-husband.
What had happened to her notebook?
Chapter 2
Sunday, September 5, 9:25 a.m.
Detective Wade Jackson held the envelope in the tips of his fingers while the pit of his stomach went cold. The postmark was labeled
Oregon State Penitentiary
. The name below it:
Hector Vargas
. How could a man’s name make him tremble? Jackson dropped the letter on the table, where it had been buried in a pile of mail since yesterday. Vargas was doing a life sentence for the murder of Clark and Evelyn Jackson. Eleven years earlier, his parents had been shot for the money they kept in a small cash box in their bedroom, their thousand-dollar emergency fund.
Why was Vargas contacting him now? To offer an apology as part of his making-amends program? Jackson didn’t want an apology or the burden of forgiveness. He didn’t think about Vargas often, but when he did, contempt seemed appropriate. He felt entitled to a single case of hatred.
“Who’s the letter from?” Katie said, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. His fifteen-year-old daughter was dieting again, eating a lot of protein and few carbs, but he knew better than to comment on food-weight issues.
Jackson hesitated. “A man in prison.”
“That’s creepy.” Katie shook her curly brown hair and reached for the salsa. “Why is he writing to you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Open it. I’m curious.”
“He murdered my parents.”
Her round little face fell. “Oh. That man. This must be really strange for you.” Katie had been a toddler when her grandparents died and she didn’t remember them.
“It’s strange, all right.” Jackson took a sip of strong black coffee. “What are you doing today?” His daughter would start high school the next day and he worried about her constantly.
“I’m going for a run, then hanging out with Zoe.” Katie stood and studied his face, then gestured at the letter. “Just rip it open like you tear off a band aid. Like you always say, pain is temporary.” She kissed his forehead and left the table.
Jackson fingered the envelope again. Another load of emotional bullshit was the last thing he needed right now. Katie didn’t need it either. Renee, his ex-wife and Katie’s poor excuse of a mother, was drinking again so Katie wasn’t spending time with her. He’d also put their house on the market to get out from under the joint mortgage. It was the only home Katie had ever known and she was not happy about selling it. Now to top it all off, a cold-blooded killer was forcing him to think about how much he missed his parents. About how vulnerable he’d felt for years after their deaths, because his backup was gone and the fountain of unconditional love permanently shut down.
Jackson mentally slapped himself and tore open the envelope. The note was handwritten in plain printed letters.
Dear Mr. Jackson,
My name is Hector Vargas and you know who I am. But you do not know me. I am not a killer. I was a thief on that day, but not a killer. Now I am sick with cancer, and the prison doctor says I won’t live much longer. I want you to know I didn’t kill your parents. I want to tell you the whole story. Please come to the prison so I can tell you in person. It’s hard for me to write it down. Come soon, please.
—Hector Vargas
Jackson read the letter again, then let it fall. What the hell was this? It had to be some kind of scam. The convict was trying to manipulate him for some gain he didn’t understand yet. Vargas had confessed to the murders and entered a plea bargain to avoid the death penalty. His guilt was never in question.
Jackson pushed up from the table and took his coffee out to the back deck. The sky was blue and warm, he had the day off, and he’d planned to take his gorgeous girlfriend on a long trike ride. Life was good, he reminded himself. He sipped his coffee and tried to remember how he’d felt before he opened the stack of mail. But his peace of mind had been shattered.
Reluctantly, he went back in the house and called the state prison. After a short, tense conversation, the warden agreed to let him visit that afternoon. Jackson’s conversation with Kera was longer and friendlier, and she made him promise to come over for dinner later, with Katie. Jackson was grateful for his girlfriend’s patience with his job. Police work could be a relationship killer.
An hour later, he was cruising along I-5 on his newly built three-wheeled motorcycle, deep in thought.
Jackson waited in a small windowless room containing only a wooden table and three chairs. The metal chair was already bothering his surgery site and he’d only been sitting for twelve minutes. Still, it was better than waiting in the main visitors’ area with the beaten-down wives and surly children. He felt sorry for the kids whose fathers were locked up, but he had less empathy for the women who clung to a relationship long after the man had proved his worthlessness.
Jackson’s law enforcement status gave him a special pass to visit Hector Vargas, so a deputy had escorted him past the other visitors, through three electronically controlled steel doors, and down a maze of hallways to this little closet room. He would be allowed a private conversation with the inmate, and Jackson was both grateful and worried. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to be alone with the man who’d murdered his parents. Jackson didn’t know how he would react. So many years had passed, and he wanted to believe he could remain cool and detached. Just another conversation with another scumbag. He’d been through so much lately—a stunning health diagnosis and surgery, followed by the shooting of a young suspect and nearly quitting his job—so his emotions felt close to the surface.
After another five minutes, an overweight deputy with a nasal wheeze escorted Vargas into the room. The inmate had been a small man even before the cancer consumed most of his muscle, but now Vargas was as emaciated as an anorexic teenage girl. His mustache and knuckle tattoos seemed out of place on his fragile body.
“I’m Deputy Hutchins,” the wheezer said, as he pushed Vargas into a chair. “How much time do you need?”
“Thirty minutes at most.” Jackson didn’t expect to hear anything new or truthful. He was annoyed with himself for making the trip. Yet how could he not come?
“Behave yourself, Vargas,” Hutchins said with a nasty laugh.
The door slammed shut and Jackson’s pulse quickened. He dreaded the emotions that were about to surface. “I’m going to document our conversation,” he announced, setting his digital recorder on the table. Vargas didn’t object. “This is Detective Jackson with the Eugene Police Department. I’m in the Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem at the request of an inmate. Please state your name.”
“Hector Vargas. I make this statement willingly.”
Jackson got right to the point. “You confessed to killing Clark and Evelyn Jackson, then entered a plea bargain. Why should I believe anything you say?”
“I have cancer and I’m dying. I have no reason to lie.” Vargas’ dark eyes were watery but they held no deceit. “I didn’t kill your parents. They were good to me, and I’m ashamed that I took their money, but I never hurt them. Never!” Vargas’ speech had a Hispanic accent, and Jackson suspected English was not his first language.
“Why did you confess to their murders?” This was the part that made no sense.
Hector hunched forward, his voice intense. “The police kept me in a little room for three days. They screamed and threatened my family. They held a gun to my head. For three days, I had little food and water. They left my hands cuffed and wouldn’t let me use the toilet.” Fear and bitterness transformed the inmate’s face. “I wet myself and became so hungry I was dizzy. If I fell asleep they would wake me. At the end, I didn’t know what I was saying. I just wanted it to stop.”
Jackson didn’t want to believe it could have happened in his department, but much had changed in the last decade. Eleven years earlier, he’d still been a patrol officer but he’d heard rumors. The sergeant who’d run the violent crimes division back then was old school and not exactly respectful of anyone who wasn’t white and male. “Why should I believe you?”
Vargas rolled up his sleeve to display two small round purplish scars. “Detective Bekker burned me with a cigarette.”
Jackson stayed silent. He was starting to believe Vargas, and rage made his chest tighten. He hated officers who abused their power and made the rest of the department look bad. Even more, he was outraged they had not searched for and caught the real killer. “What was the other detective’s name?”
“Santori. He seemed to be following the older cop’s lead.”
Jackson wrote down the names, but he would never forget them. Rick Santori was now working in internal affairs, and the irony of that was hard to take. Gary Bekker had transferred out of the detective unit a few years back for a promotion to patrol sergeant. Jackson knew both men, but not well enough to say what they were capable of. “Why did you wait so long to tell someone about this? Why didn’t your family hire a lawyer?”
“We had no money. My wife and kids moved to New Mexico to stay with her brother. And I knew God was punishing me, so I accepted it.” Vargas let out a small noise, like a man trying to hide his pain. “I took your parents’ money and I’m ashamed of that.” He hung his head for a moment, then looked up with pleading eyes. “My family was hungry and we were about to be evicted. I was desperate and I knew the money was just sitting there. I planned to put it back when I could.”
He paused, but Jackson didn’t offer any empathy, so Vargas continued. “When they found the money in my house, they called me a killer and slammed my head into a wall. I was shocked to hear the Jacksons were dead. I told the police I didn’t do it, but they wouldn’t listen. They said I had killed a cop’s parents and I would pay, one way or another.”
Guilt fueled Jackson’s anger and he didn’t trust himself to speak. Vargas had spent eleven years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. For the theft alone, he would have been released in less than a year. Finally Jackson said, “Tell me about the day my parents died. I want to know everything.”
Relief washed over Vargas’ face as he sensed that Jackson believed him. “I came to the house to finish building the little rock wall in the front yard. I had done a lot of jobs for your parents and they liked my work. No one was there when I arrived, but I thought they would be home soon so I got started.” Vargas winced in pain and held his stomach.
Jackson waited him out. He still had twinges of pain from his own surgery that spring, but cancer was in a class by itself. “Do they give you medication for the pain?”
“Some,” Vargas said through clenched teeth. In a moment, he continued his story. “I had to use the bathroom, so I went around to the back of the house. Your mother always left the back door open for me when I was working so I could use the toilet by the laundry room. I checked to see if it was open and it was. She knew I would be there that afternoon.”
Jackson’s heart ached with the memory of his mother’s kindness. For people who worked hard and lived honestly, she would do almost anything. His father had been kind as well, but a little more cautious. Jackson could imagine him disagreeing with his wife’s decision to leave the back door open for Vargas. “You went into the house?”
“I did. I regret that.” Another flash of guilt, or maybe just cancer pain. “When I left the bathroom, I heard a radio playing in the back of the house. I thought maybe someone was home, so I called out. No one answered so I went down the hall. Their bedroom door was open and the room looked messy, like someone had been searching for something. It was odd. I had never seen your parents’ house look like that. Everything was always perfect.”
Oh yes, Jackson thought. Clean as a whistle. He’d had his ears twisted as a young boy for wearing muddy shoes in the house.
“I saw the closet was open and the locked grey box was sitting there. I knew it had money so I grabbed it and left. I went out the back like I came in, then I got in my truck and drove home. I broke the box with a sledge hammer and found a thousand dollars in it.” Vargas moved his cuffed hands from his lap to the small table. “It was enough money to take my family and leave Eugene. I called my cousin in Redding and told him we were coming. My wife wasn’t happy with me, but she wanted to leave Eugene too. We weren’t doing that well here. We packed everything and waited for the kids to come home from school, but the police got there first. I was stunned when they said your parents were dead. I never saw them that day.”
Jackson thought parts of his story didn’t add up. “You said the cash box was just sitting on the closet shelf in plain sight?”
“It was on the floor, but yes, in plain sight.”
Why would his parents get their cash box out and leave the house with the back door unlocked? And why had their bedroom looked messy? “You searched the room, looking for the money, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“How did you know the box had money in it?”
Vargas shrugged. “I knew your parents. They were old and careful and they always had cash.”
Old and careful
. He had thought of them that way too when he was a kid. Yet they were also sweet. His father had been stern at times, but he’d hugged his boys every night before bed for as long as they put up with it. Jackson tried to fill the hole in his heart with details from the case. He had to think like an investigator, not a grieving son. His parents had been found dead in the living room. Both shot with an unregistered gun that had never been located. A coffee table had been knocked on its side and his father’s body had bruises that were consistent with a fight.
“Did you tell any of your friends or relatives that my parents kept money in their house?”
“No.” Vargas was emphatic. “I didn’t think about the money until that day when I saw the cash box.”
“Did any of your acquaintances own a handgun?”
“I hardly knew anyone in Eugene. We’d only been there for a year. Their deaths had nothing to do with me, I swear.” Vargas made the sign of the cross on his chest. “I will soon meet God and I’m trying to make everything right. I’m telling you this now so you can find the real killer.”