The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  “Thanks.” Kera typically didn’t like being fussed over, but the events of the last week had left her feeling vulnerable. And right now, she felt physically weak. It had been foolish to come here.

  Sunday, October 24, 3:20 p.m.

  Jackson followed Kera out of the parking lot, glad for the excuse to leave the service early. Although he had been to almost as many funerals as autopsies, he never became immune to a family’s grief. Even the riffraff who were killed over bad drug deals had people who cared about them and depended on them for emotional support—and it was disturbing to witness their pain.

  By the large turnout of mourners, it was clear that Jessie had been well loved, and the weeping would soon begin. His main objective in attending the service had been to see if the mayor would show and to scan the crowd for any known sex offenders. But he hadn’t seen any. And after his front-page photo, Fieldstone was not likely to make any public appearances.

  He tailed Kera home without incident. She got out of her car and turned to wave and smile at him. Jackson could have waved and driven on, but he didn’t. He parked on the street and joined Kera in the driveway, where she waited and watched him approach.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Not really. I shouldn’t have gone out.”

  “Have you eaten anything lately?”

  She laughed, a sound he had come to enjoy. “It always irritates me when people say they’re so busy they forgot to eat,” she said. “But I have not thought about food today. And that is very unusual for me.”

  Jackson reached for her elbow and steered her toward the house. “I’m not much of a cook, but if you’ve got some basics, I can come up with something.”

  Kera enjoyed watching Jackson scrounge through her kitchen and lament her lack of food supplies. It felt good to have someone here, in her home, complaining about something. He finally found a chicken breast in the freezer, which he thawed in the microwave, seasoned with basil and garlic, and pan fried. While it was cooking, he nuked a can of cream of broccoli soup.

  “Are you sure you won’t eat too?” she asked. “I feel guilty about letting you cook for me.”

  “I just had lunch with my daughter, and I plan to go home and have dinner with her too. I haven’t seen much of her since this case started, and she’s probably feeling like an orphan.”

  “Her mother’s not around?”

  “Her mother is an alcoholic who can’t be trusted with a child. That’s why we’re getting divorced.” His kept his eye on the sizzling chicken as he talked, and Kera couldn’t see his expression.

  “That must have been a difficult marriage.”

  He laughed. “In the dictionary, next to ‘difficult’ is a picture of Renee.” He turned to look at her. “So what happened to your marriage?” He gestured toward her left hand. “I notice that you used to wear a ring.”

  “You want the long version or the Cliff Notes?”

  “You decide. I’m a good listener.” The microwave timer went off and Jackson moved to take out the soup.

  Kera plunged forward, feeling, for the first time, a little distance from the events. “In essence, when our son moved out, we lost our mutual focus, the thing that we had in common, and so we drifted apart. Then Nathan was killed in Iraq, and we both went a little crazy. Now Daniel’s over in Iraq trying to get himself killed or find a new purpose in life. Either way, I’m not part of his plans.”

  He stood motionless and met her eyes. “I’m so sorry about your son.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now you’re dealing with the end of a marriage. Are you all right with that?”

  “I don’t know.” Kera had avoided thinking about it, but now she made herself put it into words. “I’m a little scared. I’m a little lonely. But it also feels like a chance to start over, to build something new and better.” She laughed. “If someone doesn’t kill me first.”

  Jackson shut off the stove and sat down across from her. “You need to get a perimeter alarm system installed. And I’ll arrange to have patrol units drive by here regularly for a while.”

  He reached over and grabbed her hands. A little surge of pleasure pulsed through her torso.

  “And take down your mailbox,” he insisted. “Rent a post office box instead, in another name.”

  “Good ideas. All of them.”

  They stayed like that for a moment, hands together, eyes locked, then Kera pulled away. “That chicken smells great. Is it done?”

  “Yep.”

  He brought the food to her and she ate ravenously. Jackson drank a cup of coffee and watched her chew. Kera didn’t care. For some reason, he didn’t make her feel self­-conscious. About halfway through her meal, Jackson’s phone rang. He took the call, and moments later, an intense look of relief flooded his face.

  “Thanks, Debbie. You’re my hero.” He snapped the phone shut and grinned. “I have to go.”

  “That must be good news.”

  “It is.”

  If it had been anybody but Miles Fieldstone, Jackson would have made the arrest without hesitation. But this one called for him to cover his ass at every step. So as he drove away from Kera’s, he called Chief Warner at home and interrupted his dinner.

  “This better be good news, Jackson.” Warner sounded like he’d had a beer or two.

  “It’s good news for Jessie.” Jackson paused but the chief was silent. So he continued, “The DNA results are in. Grady, the now-dead sex offender, does not match. Fieldstone does. The mayor’s pubic hair was found on Jessie’s body. I intend to arrest him for rape and murder.”

  “No. Hold off on the murder charge.”

  Jackson had to unclench his teeth to speak. “I’d like to remind you that Jessie was suffocated and that the fibers in her nose and lungs match the mayor’s sheets.”

  “It’s not a ‘match.’ I’ve read the reports. Those fibers could have come from a hundred other sets of sheets in this town.”

  Since when did the chief read lab reports?

  “Listen, Jackson. You don’t know Miles the way I do. He’s a good man. I don’t believe he murdered that girl. And if you file a murder charge, people will never forget it, even if he proves himself innocent.”

  “It’s the DA’s decision.”

  “Slonecker will do the right thing.”

  “I believe he will, sir.”

  Jackson hung up. And had to resist the urge to throw the phone. Without the murder charge, a judge might not even set bail. Fieldstone would be walking around free while they tried to build a murder case against him.

  He dialed Slonecker’s number. Would the DA support him in defiance of the chief?

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, October 24, 8:35 p.m.

  The mayor was watching a medical drama on television when his slightly drunk and worried wife escorted Jackson into their family room. The city’s leader and Republican senate hopeful wore white sweat pants, a blue T-shirt, and red plaid slippers. Patriotic, but not cool for a trip to jail, Jackson thought.

  “Miles Fieldstone.”

  The mayor looked up and his face tightened into a mask of controlled fury. “What now?”

  Jackson held up his paperwork. “You’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Jessie Davenport.”

  Through tight teeth, Fieldstone stood and said, “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Turn around, please. I have to cuff you.” Jackson checked his watch: 8:36.

  “Can I get some things together?”

  “That won’t be necessary. They don’t allow any personal items in jail.” Jackson was suddenly worried that his suspect might try something. He was done being pleasant. “Let’s go.”

  “Can I call my lawyer?”

  “You can make that call when you’re booked into the jail. Or your wife can do it now. Turn around.”

  The mayor complied. Janice Fieldstone started to cry as she watched the cuffs go on. Jackson let the man walk himself out to the Impala without a hand on his arm
—a last moment of dignity.

  He brought the mayor into the department for questioning before booking him into the jail. Now that he had physical evidence connecting Fieldstone to Jessie, Jackson half hoped to get the mayor to unburden himself. In trial, a confession was worth a ton of circumstantial connections. Jackson put his suspect in the small interrogation room with the ugly pink walls and let him sit for twenty minutes while he had a cup of coffee and called Evans, McCray, and Schakowski with the news. They were all coming in to have a celebratory drink later.

  When he sat down across the table, Jackson tried to make eye contact, but the mayor wouldn’t cooperate. Fieldstone’s face had thinned some in the last week, and he had the dark under-eye circles of the sleep deprived. Jackson turned on the recorder and established the time, the date, and the participants. Then he launched into a new round of questioning.

  “Your pubic hair was found in Jessie’s genital area. So we know you had sex with her. Did you rape her?”

  “I’m not talking without my lawyer.”

  “You could do yourself a lot of good right now by explaining your side of it. Everybody who saw the paper yesterday thinks you raped and killed that girl. And they don’t even know about the physical evidence yet.”

  The mayor met Jackson’s eyes long enough to say, “My lawyer has already filed the papers to sue you, the city, and the newspaper for that photo. You’re going to lose both of the nickels you’ve accumulated.”

  “And you’re going away for rape. And murder too. Unless you can explain what happened. Maybe negotiate a deal.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Jackson remembered Fieldstone was a lawyer. But that didn’t mean the man was without emotion.

  “You cared about Jessie didn’t you?”

  No response. Fieldstone stared off at the wall.

  “I knew her.” Jackson offered. “She was my daughter’s best friend. The two of them hung out together at our house. I can see how a guy could be attracted to her. She knew how to make people feel special.” The words coming out of his mouth revolted him, but Jackson needed to reach inside this guy and make some connection. He had to establish empathy before he could get a confession.

  The mayor wasn’t buying it.

  Jackson tried a new tactic. Sometimes if you gave a killer an out, a way to minimize his crime, the suspect would grab onto it like a lifeline.

  “I figure you probably didn’t mean to kill her. Maybe she threatened to break it off or tell her mother. You got scared, threatened her, things got out of hand.”

  The mayor grunted. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Jackson wasn’t ready to give up. “The physical evidence will just keep coming. The lab found carpet fibers on Jessie’s shoes. They’re being compared to your carpet right now. And if Jessie drooled on your sheets, we’ll know that soon too. You had sex with the girl, in your apartment, a stone’s throw from where she was found dead. Any jury will convict you.”

  “A jury isn’t likely to hear about any of it because of the way you handled the case.” Fieldstone sounded more tired than smug.

  Jackson took a long shot with speculative information. “When they hear that her baby’s DNA matches yours, they’ll give you the death penalty.”

  The mayor’s eyes went wide. He tried to hide his reaction, but Jackson could tell he was stunned. Had Fieldstone not known about the pregnancy?

  “Is that why you killed her? She wanted to keep the baby?”

  Fieldstone closed his eyes and put his head down on the table. After that, he did not look up or respond in any way. Jackson was disappointed but not surprised. This case would probably go the distance and take years to resolve in court, especially with all the political maneuvering. But their work on the case and the evidence his team had collected would stand the test of time.

  Sunday, October 24, 6:23 p.m.

  Ruth could feel her heart pounding in her fingertips and knew her blood pressure was off the charts. She’d been distressed since she’d seen Kera Kollmorgan at Jessie’s service this afternoon and couldn’t think about anything else. She’d warmed up frozen pizza and canned corn for dinner, of all the shameful things, because she was shaking too badly to fix a decent meal. Now Sam was preparing for their trip to Portland for the monthly CCA meeting.

  “Sam, I’m too upset to go,” she said, as he poured a thermos of decaf. “I think I’ll stay home and pray.”

  He gave her a look. “Ruth, just take one of your anxiety pills. That’s what they’re for. The doctor said you won’t get addicted if you only take them every once in a while.”

  Ruth hesitated, then decided it would be good to get her blood pressure down. She took the prescription bottle out of the cupboard above the sink and swallowed one of the tiny white tablets. She felt better just knowing it would kick in soon. Reverend John Strickland and his wife Eva would be here in a few minutes to pick them up in the church van. Then they would stop for Joanne and Steve Clarke. Judy and Paul Davenport used to ride with them to the CCA meetings too, before they divorced. Ruth felt guilty that she hadn’t been to see Judy since Jessie’s passing.

  “Rachel, Caleb,” she called the kids into the kitchen. The TV went mute, then moments later they were seated at the table looking a little bored. Her children had heard it a few times already, but Ruth gave them her standard lecture.

  “We’ll be gone until midnight. I expect you to behave the same when we’re not here as when we are. God is watching you, and I will know if you break the rules. Do your homework, don’t leave the house, and don’t let anyone in. Don’t test us. You know the consequences.”

  The first half of the trip was a little tense for Ruth. The group talked briefly about Jessie’s death, then moved on to CCA business. Their new project was a voter initiative aimed at changing the state law that allowed minors to get an abortion without telling their parents. It was Ruth’s idea, and she knew it would be a tough battle. The language of the TV commercials supporting the initiative would have to be carefully crafted. Ruth suggested hiring a marketing firm. Reverend Strickland objected. He was seated in front of her and made a point to turn and give Ruth a disapproving look. She was not concerned. Only God could judge her, and He thought she was doing fine.

  Then the conversation shifted, and Eva began to chatter about her daughter and how nerve-racking it was teaching Angel to drive now that the girl had her learner’s permit. About that time, Ruth’s Ativan kicked in and she was able to tune out the others and focus on her personal objectives.

  In simple terms: Kera Kollmorgan had to be stopped. She could not be allowed to continue her ruthless recruitment of Christian kids. First at the school, then at church—the woman’s audacity knew no limits. The poisoning incident apparently hadn’t convinced the abortionist-whore to back off. What else could Ruth do? It was time to send Kollmorgan to the fires of hell where she belonged.

  Chapter 28

  Monday, October 25, 8:30 a.m.

  Kera slept late, ate a big breakfast of scrambled eggs and yogurt, then, with the phone book in front of her, called alarm installation companies until she found one that could come out the next day. She made an appointment for Tuesday morning at 10:15. Sheila had told her to take off all the time she needed, and Kera figured she would take at least a day or two. She told herself that her body needed time to heal, but in truth, she was a little afraid to step out her front door.

  Later she checked her phone messages. There were three from her sister who lived over the mountains in Bend. On her last two messages, Janine sounded a little panicked that Kera had not returned her calls, but Kera didn’t think Janine knew about the ricin incident. The hospital staff had not found her relatives, and once she was conscious, Kera had instructed them not to look. Her family worried about her enough already. But she called Janine back to reassure her sister that everything was fine.

  But Janine had heard about the bomb and was not reassured. “Please get out of that clinic. As a skilled nurs
e, you can work anywhere.” This was her family’s consistent theme. Every time they saw abortion clinic violence on TV, they called her and begged her to find a new position.

  “I’m not letting one fanatic drive me away from a job I love. What if everyone at the clinic quit? Where would kids and poor women go for birth control?”

  “Let someone else do it for a while. You’ve paid your dues.”

  “We’ve hired a security guard. And the FBI is investigating. I’ll be okay.” That’s what she kept telling herself. “But as long as we’re talking about this, I want to let you know that I’m changing my will to make you my beneficiary and executor.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Janine’s voice pitched even higher.

  “I’m just taking care of business. Daniel isn’t coming back from Iraq, and I believe our marriage is over, so if anything happens to me, you have to take charge.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Relax. It’s just me being anal. I’m not going to die.”

  While Kera was checking online news sites, the alarm company called and said they couldn’t be out until Thursday. When she tried to explain the urgency of her situation, they suggested she hire a bodyguard. Kera thanked the man in a less-than-gracious tone and hung up. She grabbed the phone book, thinking she would start over, but now she had one of those blinding headaches, so she went back to bed instead.

  Monday, October 25, 8:45 a.m.

  Fieldstone’s arraignment was held in a small courtroom inside the Lane County jail. There were no spectators, no family supporters, just a few harried public defenders and five inmates in dark green prison garb that looked just like nursing scrubs: no buttons, no zippers, no strings.

  Fieldstone, with his good looks, tanned skin, and full set of teeth, stood out from the other prisoners, most of whom had never seen a dentist. Roger Barnsworth, Fieldstone’s silk-clad attorney, looked out of place among the more modestly dressed public defenders. Next to Barnsworth sat a younger man in a business suit. His cropped blond hair and square jaw gave him a no-nonsense appearance.