The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  Next, he looked in the shower: Head and Shoulders shampoo—which a young girl would never use—and bone dry walls. No one had showered lately. He checked in the back of the toilet tank out of habit from his days on the vice team. Nothing. Evans took the camera back into the bedroom.

  Jackson was about to follow, then he stopped and backed up. The bathroom door was open against an interior bathroom wall. Jackson closed the door and was rewarded with a navy blue bathrobe hanging from a hook on the door’s backside. He slipped his gloved hands into the robe’s pockets for a quick check. A pair of orange-colored bikini briefs were balled up in the left pocket.

  “Evans.”

  She came back on the fly and filmed him bagging the panties. Jackson would have liked to arrest Fieldstone and hold him in custody, but he couldn’t, not yet. Not without charging him. Now that Fieldstone had called his lawyer, they would be lucky to get the mayor alone in a room for questioning. But if the DNA results connected Jessie to this room, he could charge Fieldstone and argue for no bail. Unfortunately, even if Jackson drove the evidence to Portland himself, it could still take up to a week to process DNA comparisons. Maybe he could get the mayor to go on record with a provable lie.

  Jackson headed for the living room. Fieldstone paced, while Slonecker slouched in a fat leather chair. Jackson approached the mayor and pulled the panties out of the evidence bag. “Who do these belong to?”

  Fieldstone shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Is that your blue bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door?”

  “Yes.”

  “We found the panties in the pocket. So I assume you have seen them before.”

  “Assume what you like. I’m not answering any more questions without my lawyer.”

  From the chair, Slonecker signaled Jackson to back off.

  The detectives spent another thirty minutes going through the apartment again, then left the mayor alone in his love nest. Schak agreed to post a stakeout and tail Fieldstone if he left. Jackson promised to have a patrol unit relieve him in a few hours. They all needed some sleep.

  As Jackson and Evans drove back to the department with their load of evidence, his cell phone rang.

  “Detective Jackson? It’s Kera Kollmorgan.”

  Her smooth, sexy voice startled him. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

  She hesitated. “I discovered something that might be relevant to your investigation.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jackson slowed down, so he could focus on the conversation.

  “I found a website where I think Jessie’s friends gossip in chat rooms. They use screen names and initials, so it’s not definite.”

  “What’s the URL?”

  “Girls just want to have fun dot com. All one word.”

  Jackson repeated it back and signaled Evans to write it down.

  “What makes you think it’s relevant to the investigation?”

  “I’m not sure.” Kera sounded embarrassed, and he regretted his businesslike tone. In a moment she said, “There was nothing that directly related to her death, but because of the sexual content, I thought you might want to know about it.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll look into it. Thanks, Kera.”

  He pocketed the flip phone and turned left on 8th Street. Evans looked at him intently. “Who was that?”

  “A nurse from Planned Parenthood. She says that website has a chat room where Jessie’s friends talk about sex.”

  “How do you suppose she knows that?” Evans arched her eyebrows.

  “That’s a good question. But you can bet, she’ll never tell. Planned Parenthood is very protective of its clients.”

  As they pulled into the lower-level parking lot at city hall, Evans said, “You called her Kera.”

  “So?”

  “You never call anyone by their first name. Except your wife and daughter.”

  Thursday, October 21, 7:23 p.m.

  Ruth pulled onion and hamburger out of the refrigerator with the intention of making meatloaf. But five minutes later she was still standing at the counter with nothing accomplished. She could not stop thinking about Kollmorgan, the abortionist, talking alone with Nicole.

  “Mom? When are we going to eat?” Caleb whined at her from the kitchen doorway.

  “Soon, honey.”

  “Can I have a snack?”

  “No. But you can start on your homework.”

  Caleb disappeared and Ruth got busy on the onion. But her mind was a whirl and her nerve endings were firing overtime. It took every ounce of control she had to resist calling the Clarkes and speaking with both Nicole and Joanne immediately. Nicole clearly needed some counseling, and Joanne deserved to know that the devil was after her daughter. But Ruth had to be careful how much she said about Kollmorgan—even to other church members.

  Her first order of business was to teach the abortionist-whore that coming after one of the faithful was a very bad idea. Vengeance is mine. Ruth took the biblical sentiment to heart and tried to form a lesson that would be swift and effective. But she couldn’t afford to raise suspicion among either the police or church members. Because she was not finished with God’s work. He wanted her to close the abortion clinic, and she intended to complete that mission.

  Ruth chopped and planned. As usual, the cat smelled raw meat and rubbed against her legs. Ruth ignored it. How far should she go to punish Kollmorgan? How many more lives should the abortionist be allowed to ruin?

  “Ruth, calm down before you cut yourself.” Sam, her husband, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen. Ruth put her knife down and opened her arms for a hug.

  Sam obliged. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “I’m upset about Jessie. And I’m worried about the other girls in Teen Talk.”

  Sam pulled back. “Do you think a killer is targeting our girls?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a thought. I worry too much.”

  He touched her chin. “Then you’re not praying enough. Leave it to God, Ruth. He’ll take care.”

  “You’re right.”

  Later, during dinner, Ruth came up with the perfect plan. The only uncertainty was the quantity of powder. Too much ricin, and Kollmorgan would die. But that would be up to God. Only He had the moral authority to give and take life.

  Chapter 17

  Friday, October 22, 9:03 a.m.

  Fieldstone showed up for questioning the next morning with not one, but two lawyers. His personal attorney, Aaron Park, was a tax and probate man who was not qualified to handle a criminal investigation. So the mayor had called in Roger Barnsworth, a defense attorney who specialized in sexual charges. Barnsworth was a large black man with a shaved head and wide smile. Jackson had encountered him in court before and knew that he was good with juries. He tried not to hate him just because he was a defense attorney.

  They stood in the detectives’ work space and introduced themselves, shaking hands politely as if they were about to start a business meeting. On the surface, police work had become very cordial. In the trenches, passions still raged.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Fieldstone, but I can only allow one lawyer into the room with you,” Jackson said. He noticed that Fieldstone didn’t look quite as dapper today. He’d lost a little sleep and some of his sun-kissed glow.

  Park took off. The rest of them entered the interview room, including McCray, whose role was to throw in a little spice now and then to keep the suspect off guard. The ten-by-twelve room felt like a padded phone booth after the four of them had squeezed in. But Jackson, having slept for five hours the night before, felt refreshed and ready to nail this guy.

  He set a tape recorder in the middle of the table, turned it on, and stated the date and the names of the participants. There was no wall camera recording the inter­view. No opaque observational window. Such amenities weren’t in the budget when Eugene’s city hall was built fifty years ago, and proportionally, law enforcement’s budget was even smaller now. It
fact, the DA’s office was so understaffed, they no longer prosecuted about three hundred types of minor crimes, including shoplifting, forgery, and breaking-and-entering.

  Jackson got right down to business. “Where were you on Tuesday, October 19, between 3 and 5 p.m.?”

  The mayor was calm and confident. He’d had all night to prepare for the questioning. “I was in a meeting with a lobbyist group until 3:30, then I went out for a walk around the block. It was a nice afternoon. After that, I was in my office until I left for a dinner meeting at 5:30.”

  “Who did you meet with?”

  “Members of the Conservative Culture Alliance. They’re upset about the county’s decision to issue marriage licenses to same sex couples.” Always the politician.

  “Give me the name of someone at the meeting who can vouch for when it ended.”

  “My assistant, Mariska Harrison.”

  “Who else?” Jackson was not impressed.

  Fieldstone turned to his lawyer. “Do I have to give him a name? It was a private meeting.”

  Jackson cut in. “I need an impartial witness. And I’d like to point out that a solid alibi can only help you.”

  “Sam Greiner,” Fieldstone offered.

  “Thank you.” Jackson jotted it down, thinking he’d seen the name recently. “Mayor, this will be a really long morning if you don’t cooperate. We’d like to clear you of involvement as quickly as possible.”

  Nobody believed that.

  “Did anyone see you during your walk?”

  “I’m sure they did. I don’t recall anyone specifically.”

  McCray jumped in. “But you recall that it was a nice day?”

  “Yes. That’s what made me think to go outside.”

  “What time did you get back?”

  “Around 4:20, I think.”

  “Did you look at your watch?” McCray pressed. “I mean, you’re a busy man. You must look at your watch quite regularly.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “After your walk, did anyone see you while you were in your office?” Jackson asked.

  The mayor pretended to think about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “What did you do during that time?”

  “Read, studied, prepared for my dinner meeting.”

  Jackson decided it was time to mix it up. “Whose panties were in the pocket of your bathrobe?”

  Fieldstone’s face went blank, like a man trying to lie without giving it away. “A prostitute’s.”

  The response threw Jackson off a little. The mayor had clearly thought this through. “What’s her name?”

  “Heather. We didn’t exchange last names.”

  “How often does she come to your apartment?”

  “She was there once. On Monday evening.”

  “Where can I find this woman?”

  The mayor shrugged. “I have no idea. I met her in the bar at the Hilton.”

  Jackson was suddenly a little nervous about the DNA results on the orange panties. What if they didn’t belong to Jessie? The mayor could have screwed a hundred different women in that apartment. And how much time should his team waste trying to track down a prostitute who probably didn’t exist?

  “How many women have been in your pleasure pad?”

  “Don’t answer that.” Barnsworth jumped in and suddenly decided to earn his fee.

  “Does your wife know about the prostitute?”

  Barnsworth stood. “We’re done here.”

  “Mayor Fieldstone isn’t,” Jackson said.

  McCray suddenly produced a photo of Jessie taken during her autopsy and shoved it across the table at Fieldstone. “How well do you know this girl?”

  The mayor leaned back away from the photo. He seemed to struggle for control. After a long moment, he said, “I told you. She goes to my church.”

  “You weren’t that sure yesterday.”

  No response.

  “Do you know her by name?” Jackson needed the mayor to make a statement that they could later prove to be a lie. Then they would have leverage.

  “I believe her name is Jessie.”

  “Do you know her last name?”

  “I can’t think of it at the moment.”

  “Have you seen or spoken to Jessie outside of church?”

  “I may have seen her at a church function that was held somewhere other than church property.” Fieldstone’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes were jittery.

  Jackson kept trying. “Have you ever seen Jessie or spoken to her at any functions that were unrelated to your church?”

  A slight hesitation. “No.”

  “Does that mean you consider sex a religious experience?” Jackson asked.

  “We’re done,” Barnsworth stood to leave. Fieldstone followed suit.

  “Not yet.” Jackson stood up too, so he could look his suspect in the eye. “Mayor Fieldstone, what did you and Jessie talk about so frequently on the phone?”

  Fieldstone lost a little more color from his face, and Barnsworth looked stunned. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Do you admit making four phone calls to Jessie Davenport?”

  “My client isn’t answering any more questions.” Barnsworth grabbed the mayor’s elbow and pushed him toward the door. “Good day, detectives.”

  “We may want your client back in here very soon for more questions,” Jackson warned. “Don’t make any travel plans.”

  “I’m giving a speech at the Republican party headquarters in Portland tomorrow.” The mayor tried to demonstrate that he was still in charge of his own schedule.

  “Plan on coming right back. Thanks for your time.”

  After they left, McCray said, “He doesn’t have an alibi for the time of Jessie’s death.”

  Jackson shrugged. “But he has money and politically connected friends. Just wait. He’ll produce someone who saw him taking a walk.”

  By 10:35 a.m., Jackson was on Interstate 5, heading once again for the medical examiner’s office in Portland. His critical cargo today was a pair of orange panties, a tiny container of lip gloss, and a set of high-quality blue sheets. He hadn’t yet received the DNA results from the trace evidence collected during the autopsy, so he had no illusions about getting the new samples processed in a hurry. For all of technology’s advances, lack of funding still kept criminal investigations moving at a glacial pace.

  Fifteen minutes into the trip, Judy Davenport called him on his cell phone.

  “What’s going on? Have you found Jessie’s killer yet?” Her distress was palpable.

  “We have a solid lead. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “But how did she die? I want to know. Did she suffer?”

  Poor woman. Jackson felt bad that he hadn’t called her after the autopsy. “Jessie didn’t suffer. She was suffocated, but there were no bruises.”

  “Thank God.”

  Jackson shifted the phone to his other hand, so he could pass a line of slow moving trucks. “Mrs. Davenport, did you know that your daughter was sexually active?”

  A pause. “I don’t believe it.”

  “If you know who she was having sex with, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me.”

  “Jessie was a good girl. You just find her killer.” And she hung up.

  Jackson sighed. Some parents never got over the denial, even when confronted with the evidence. He’d seen it time and again, and it was bad for the child.

  The sun popped in and out of the clouds as he drove, and Jackson kept putting his sunglasses on and taking them off. A Led Zeppelin CD kept him company for the first half of the trip, then his thoughts turned to Kera Kollmorgan. Jackson suspected that she knew more about Jessie than she was telling. Last night, he’d visited the website she mentioned but had been unable to access any of the chat rooms because he didn’t have the right user name. But clearly, Kera had been able to get in. He needed more information from her. And he suspected that, with the right pressure, she would help him. Because he believed that�
��s what she really wanted to do.

  Working his cell phone keys with thick fingers while squinting at the tiny print in the display screen, Jackson scrolled back through his incoming calls until he found Kera’s call from last night. Then he pressed OK and send. If he had witnessed a civilian doing that while driving, he would have written them a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle.

  Kera’s lovely voice asked him to please leave a message.

  “It’s Detective Jackson. I couldn’t access that website you gave me last night, so I’d like to discuss it with you. I’ll buy you dinner while we talk. Call me at 729-8154.”

  A few minutes later, he called Katie, but she was in class and didn’t answer. He left a message saying he’d be home late and suggesting the two of them do lunch and a movie that weekend. The call left him feeling frustrated and guilty.

  As much as he loved his daughter, what he really wanted to do this weekend was start collecting the parts he needed to build a trike. He’d fixated on the idea for crafting a three-wheeled motorcycle fifteen years ago when he was a patrol cop. He’d stopped a man who was driving one for speeding on Beltline. The Volkswagen–Harley combination rig with its fat tires and chopper front end had intrigued him so much he had asked a dozen questions and never ticketed the man. Jackson had walked away with the idea that one day, he would build one for himself. Over the years, he had visited trike websites and drawn a few designs, but life had gotten in the way of his actually building it. But taking care of Renee and Katie was no longer eating up all his free time, so he thought he could finally make it happen. Next weekend, he promised himself.

  In the state medical examiner’s office, Jackson checked in the new evidence with Debbie and asked her to prioritize it, then met briefly with Ainsworth. She was ready with a manila envelope containing the full autopsy and lab reports.

  “I ruled it a homicide,” she said, handing him the paperwork. It was only the second time Jackson had ever seen her without a surgical-style hair covering, and it surprised him to see that she had gone completely gray. Jackson reflexively touched his own hair, which had begun to sprout some silver at the temples. His life was flying by and there was so much he hadn’t done yet.