The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  In a few quick movements, the county ME had retrieved battery powered flood lights from the vehicle and set them up near the dumpster. They looked like vehicle headlights on yellow spider legs.

  “Any idea who she is?” Gunderson asked.

  “Jessie Davenport. Lives about eight blocks from here and was a good friend of my daughter’s.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Standing at the end of the dumpster, Jackson watched as Gunderson analyzed the girl where she lay, turning her head, lifting her shoulders, and mumbling to himself. The rest of her body remained inside the plastic bag. While the ME clicked off about ten pictures, Jackson’s thoughts kept returning to his own daughter. What if Katie had still been friends with Jessie? Would Katie be dead now too? The idea was unbearable, so he shut it down.

  After another minute, they carefully lifted Jessie, still mostly covered by the black plastic, out of the foulness and set her down on a body bag Gunderson had laid out. The ME carefully cut open the plastic and exposed the rest of its contents. Under the glare of work lights, Jessie was nude, but stunningly unblemished. No blood, no bruises, no abrasions. Not even a freckle.

  “Who’s going in?” Schakowski asked in response to the unspoken question: Where are her clothes?

  “You know you are. There’s coveralls in the back of my car and booties in my bag.”

  “Thanks.” More sarcasm than appreciation.

  While Schak dug through the garbage, Gunderson examined the body, talking out loud for Jackson’s benefit. “Lack of rigor mortis, except for in the small muscles of the hands.” Then a little later: “Body temperature is 95.5, and it’s 64 degrees right now, but it was warmer earlier. Most likely, she’s been dead for three hours, maybe a little longer. I’d say she most likely died between 4 and 5 p.m. today.”

  “Do you see any sign of trauma? A blow to the head maybe?” Jackson wanted to know what had killed her, and so far, her body wasn’t giving it away.

  “Not yet.” Gunderson began to probe around the girl’s genitals. Jackson involuntarily looked away. The ME’s voice was unaffected. “Swelling around the inner labia indicates recent sexual activity, but no real sign of rape.”

  Sexual activity? Jackson was stunned. Jessie was only thirteen, or maybe fourteen by now. He turned back to the ME. “How do you know it wasn’t rape?”

  “There’s no bruising, tearing, or blood,” Gunderson responded. “And the swabs I just took show semen in the anus.”

  “What are you saying?” Jackson knew, but he did not believe.

  “She had vaginal and anal sex, most likely consensual, sometime today. We’ll see how viable the sperm are under a microscope.”

  Jackson struggled to set aside his personal feelings. He had to forget that he knew this girl, that she was his daughter’s friend. He had to be objective and focus on the facts. She was probably sexually abused by someone she knew.

  “There’s trace evidence,” Gunderson said, using tweezers to lift something from Jessie’s pubic area. “A short dark hair, definitely not hers, most likely pubic.”

  Excellent, Jackson thought. Now all he needed was someone to match it to.

  After a few minutes, Gunderson noted that there were faint red marks around the girl’s wrists, indicating she may have been bound. In this case, Jackson had no idea what that meant. If she wasn’t raped, he couldn’t assume she had been forcibly abducted or held against her will.

  But like every other person in this county who had died under suspicious circumstances, Jessie would be sent to the state medical examiner’s office in Portland for a full autopsy. Like every other death he’d investigated, Jackson would attend. The trace evidence would be couriered separately to the lab for DNA testing, which could take a week or longer. First thing tomorrow, Jackson would call the lab’s supervisor, a woman named Debbie he’d known for years, and ask her to prioritize the work. This case was more important than any drug-related homicide.

  “Any idea on cause of death?” She didn’t just die.

  Gunderson’s permanent frown line puckered a little deeper. “If I had to guess, I’d say either drug overdose or suffocation. And that’s all I can do here. Let’s get her into the van and on her way to the morgue for an ID.”

  As they were loading the body, Lara Evans drove up. At thirty-two, she was the youngest detective in the unit and still single. She wore her ash-brown hair short and feathered, emphasizing her heart-shaped face and bright blue eyes. Her expressions were as changeable as a chameleon—sweet one minute, inscrutable the next. She reminded Jackson of the actress Ashley Judd. Evans wore her standard on-the-job combo of black slacks and a pastel blazer.

  Jackson quickly briefed her. Evans had been a detective for less than a year, but her first response reminded him why he had picked her for the investigation.

  “Consensual sex doesn’t mean she wasn’t the victim of a sexual predator. We need to pull in all the known perverts in this area, registered or not.”

  “You’re right. We will.”

  Schakowski, who now smelled like cold pizza grease and cat litter, joined them. “I haven’t found a single thing that looks like it might belong to a young girl,” he said. “I’m going to pull the top layer of garbage out and use the spotlight.”

  “Great. We’ll check the other dumpsters and cans in the area too.” Jackson turned to Evans. “When McCray gets here, I want you guys to split these units,” he gestured at the two apartment buildings separated by the basketball court, “and knock on every door. Move quickly. Our priority is to find a witness or get a description of anyone who may have been seen in the area this afternoon. We’ll go back tomorrow with photos of the girl and get more specific.”

  Jackson watched the body wagon pull onto the street and heaved a sigh.

  “I’ll go see her mother.”

  Judy Davenport frowned when she first saw him, then looked confused. The last time they’d spoken, Jackson had been upset with her—maybe yelled a little—because she had let Katie and Jessie stay overnight somewhere else when he had been told that the girls would be in the Davenport home.

  This time, she did not know why he was here and was not prepared for what he would tell her. Jackson didn’t feel ready either. This was the first time he’d ever had to tell a parent that their young child had been murdered. In the other homicides he’d investigated involving children, the parent or guardian had reported—and committed—the crime.

  “Mrs. Davenport?”

  She opened the screen door. “What can I do for you?” Judy was mid-aged, mid-sized, and would have been attractive if she had not been stuck in the eighties. The pile of teased gray-blond hair made her face look small, and the padded shoulders of her blouse made her seem insecure.

  “Is your husband here?”

  “Not any more. Why?” Her eyes darted from Jackson to his car, then down the street. She was starting to panic.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Can I come in?”

  Judy stepped back, letting the screen door bounce. Jackson followed her into the living room. In all those times he’d picked Katie up here, he’d never come inside. The barrage of color and clutter made him want to run. Mrs. Davenport stood at the end of a maroon-and-green floral couch, facing him. Her hands pressed against her chest, as if to protect her heart from a blow.

  Her lips began to tremble. “It’s Jessie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that she’s dead.”

  For a few seconds, she was absolutely still, as though her brain had shut down. Then a floodwater of tears built up behind her eyes until the pupils looked as if they would drown. Judy Davenport sank onto the couch and began to pray and cry in a cacophony of sounds. She rocked back and forth, begging for Jesus to help her.

  “Is there anyone I can call who can come over and stay with you?”

  She ignored him, rocking and wailing on her bright floral couch. Jackson moved away, taking a moment to look around
at the house. The living room and dining area were cluttered but clean, and totally feminine. Pink and red throw pillows, wall hangings with embroidered poems and prayers, and shelves full of porcelain figures. But nothing, on the surface, to explain how the girl who had lived here had ended up dead.

  Jessie’s mother took several gulping breaths, then looked up. “How did it happen?”

  Jackson moved to the couch and sat next to her. “We don’t know yet. Someone found her body. But there’s no evidence of any trauma.”

  “What are you saying? She just died?”

  “She was naked and in a dumpster. We’re treating it like a homicide.”

  A wounded animal sound burst from her throat. Davenport closed her eyes and began to pray again, her lips moving in a whispery singsong.

  “I know this is very difficult,” Jackson prodded, “but I need to ask you some questions. Maybe some tough questions about Jessie’s social life.”

  Suddenly, she sprang off the couch. “You think this is my fault, don’t you? You think I’m a bad mother. You always did.” The outburst was followed by more weeping.

  Jackson gave her a minute. “You’re a fine mother. I just need to figure out what happened. And I need your help. Will you please sit down and answer some questions?”

  She sat, but she would not look at him.

  Jackson took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw Jessie?”

  “This morning before school.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  She whipped her head around. “Why? Do you think the way she was dressed was responsible for whatever happened to her?”

  Jackson fought to keep his cool. “A detective is standing in a dumpster right now looking for your daughter’s clothes, in case those clothes have evidence on them that can help us. I’d like to tell him exactly what he’s looking for.”

  She pressed her lips together, looking chagrined, then said, “A denim skirt and a pink and blue striped pullover.”

  “What about shoes or a backpack?”

  “I don’t know about the shoes, but she always carried a backpack. This year it was one of those clear plastic ones. I only saw her briefly before I left for work. I had an early shift at the nursing home this morning.”

  Jackson used his cell phone to relay the information to Schakowski, who had not found anything yet. Mrs. Davenport went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water for herself. Jackson had more questions.

  “Did Jessie have any plans to go somewhere after school today?”

  “She had Teen Talk.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A group of Christian kids who get together after school once a week.” This was new to Jackson. He didn’t remember the activity from when Katie and Jessie had been friends.

  “Where do they meet and what do they do?”

  “It’s a Bible study. They meet at Angel’s. She has a big rec room with a pool table.”

  “Angel Strickland?” When Katie had been friends with Jessie, Angel’s name had come up a few times. Jackson may have met her once but couldn’t remember for sure. He often got Katie’s friends mixed up.

  Mrs. Davenport nodded.

  Jackson asked, “Do you know if Jessie was at Angel’s today?”

  “She would have called me if she went anywhere else.”

  “Did she carry a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  Jackson made a note to subpoena the records. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  The mother scowled. “Of course not. She’s only thirteen. Well, almost fourteen.” Davenport began to cry again. Through sobs, she choked out, “Her birthday is next week.”

  “Do you know anyone who would want to harm Jessie?” If Jessie had been an adult victim, he would have asked that first.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Do you have a current photo?”

  “I’ve got her school photo from last year.” Mrs. Davenport pulled a tissue from her smock and wiped at her face.

  “I’d like to release Jessie’s name and photo to the media and ask for the public’s help.”

  She nodded and pulled herself off the couch.

  Jackson asked if he could see Jessie’s room. Davenport hesitated, then sighed and led him down a short hallway, her too-tight jeans rubbing noisily. She opened the door at the end and stepped back to let him pass. Behind him, Jackson felt her move into place in the doorway, intent on keeping watch over Jessie’s things.

  Pale apricot walls, topped with fringed shawls hanging from the corners gave the room a cocoon fairytale feel. Posters of clean-cut boy bands lined the wall behind the bed, which was topped with an orange and white comforter that reminded him of the Fruit Striped gum he’d chewed as a kid. The furniture was a mixed assortment: the wooden desk looked old and scarred, as if it had been purchased secondhand, but the white bed frame looked new and possibly expensive. A pile of clothes and shoes had been pushed up against the closed closet, and a small painting of Jesus hung above the desk. Jackson didn’t remember Jessie being religious. But the truth was, they hadn’t chatted much.

  From his bag, he removed his camera and took several photos of the general layout. Then he pulled on some gloves and began to search her dresser. Nothing of great interest, except a collection of panties that filled a whole drawer. Did all young girls have this much underwear? Jackson rifled through her desk drawers next, finding old homework reports, religious booklets, and a few innocuous notes addressed to Jess and signed May-May. He put the notes in a brown paper evidence bag.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Judy Davenport rushed into the room.

  “Collecting evidence. Please step back and let me do my job.”

  “You’re not taking anything out of here.” Judy Davenport was on the verge of tears again.

  Jackson’s heart went out to the woman. “Why don’t you go call someone to come over and stay with you?”

  “I’m not leaving you in here alone.”

  Time to switch tactics. “Is there a computer in the house?” He was surprised that Jessie’s room didn’t have one. According to Katie, every kid in her school had their own computer, cell phone, and television.

  “Not any more. It was just a portal to pornography and violence and a multitude of other evil influences.”

  “Didn’t Jessie need a computer for school work sometimes?”

  “They have computers at the school, at the library, at Starbucks. All her friends have one. Jessie didn’t need one of her own.”

  Back to square one. Jackson moved over to the bed and lifted a corner of the mattress.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Looking for a diary.”

  Jackson spotted a book in the center of the box springs and pulled it free. The paperback was titled Road Trip, and the cover sported a naked couple on a motorcycle. Mrs. Davenport grabbed it out of his hands. Then she gasped and dropped it like it was a snake. Clearly, she had not known her daughter all that well, and Jessie had been a conflicted young girl.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, October 20, 6:10 a.m.

  Kera heated water in the microwave, then poured it over her freshly ground coffee. While it seeped into the cup, she stepped outside to get the newspaper. Even though most afternoons were still warm and sunny, mornings now were dark and cold. Knowing the season could change abruptly, Kera decided it was time to dig her winter clothes out of the back of the bedroom closet just to be prepared.

  Coffee and paper in hand, she sat down at the kitchen table and glanced at the headlines. A photo of the bombed clinic took up half the front page. Eugene had never experienced anything like this before, and the photo alone would sell out news stands. Trina Waterman of KRSL had broken the story last night, and the newspaper account didn’t add much detail, except to speculate about the bomber’s possible motives.

  Kera got up to scramble eggs and turned on the small TV she kept in the kitchen to catch some national news. As she opened the refrigerator
, the KRSL morning anchor—a big man named Thaddeus Brown— announced a “breaking story.” Kera turned to the TV, stunned by the news that followed:

  “The body of 13-year-old Jessie Davenport, a student at Kincaid Middle School, was found in a dumpster late yesterday afternoon behind the Regency Apartments in South Eugene. The police have not released any information about the crime but have asked for the public’s help. If you saw Jessie Davenport yesterday or saw anything suspicious near the Regency Apartments at 17th and Patterson, please call 686-0505.”

  They cut to a picture of Jessie, looking younger and happier than she had yesterday, then showed the Regency complex, then cut to a gray dumpster surrounded by yellow crime tape. “We will have more on this story at six.”

  Kera sank back into her chair. The girl she had treated in the clinic yesterday—who had e-mailed her immediately afterward—had been killed and dumped like trash. The coffee soured in her stomach, and the little tremor she had been experiencing in her hands came back.

  Kera laid her forehead against the cool rosewood table. Why was this world so messed up? Why did so many young people have to die? First Nathan, now Jessie. Even though she hadn’t really known Jessie, the girl had reached out to her. Jessie’s death felt like another loss, a personal failure. Kera breathed deeply into her abdomen and emptied her mind. She could not afford another layer of grief and guilt. She had to function. She had a job to do, people who counted on her.

  In a few minutes, she forced herself to get up, brush her teeth, and dress for work. As she grabbed a container of yogurt for her lunch, Kera thought she heard a faint musical sound. But her cell phone was right there on the kitchen counter, quiet as usual. She heard the sound again. Kera followed the tone into the living room and realized it was coming from the front closet. Puzzled, she opened the closet door. The next ring was much louder. She reached for the sweater she’d worn yesterday and pulled a pink cell phone out of the pocket.

  In a flash, she remembered that she had picked up Jessie’s phone from the exam table and tried to return it to her. Kera had no idea how it ended up in her pocket. It had been in her hand when she fell. Perhaps one of her co-workers thought it was hers and put it in her pocket. Or maybe she had done it herself. Her memory of the events right before and after the explosion was fuzzy.