The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  Jackson caught himself staring. Who was this guy? And why was he at Fieldstone’s arraignment?

  He soon found out. When the proceeding opened, Barnsworth stood up and said, “I move to dismiss all charges, Your Honor.”

  “On what grounds?” Judge Morrison looked liked a salt-and-pepper version of Val Kilmer.

  “We have an eye witness who places my client a mile from the scene of the crime during the one-hour window for the time of death.”

  Jackson groaned. It was partially audible, and Barnsworth glanced his way.

  “Please come forward for a conference.”

  Barnsworth and Slonecker both approached the judge, who was seated about five feet from the front bench. There were no tables in the tiny room. During the three-minute discussion, Barnsworth gestured at the crew-cut man twice. Jackson concluded that he was the witness.

  When the lawyers returned to their seats in the benches, Judge Morrison said, “Motion denied. On the matter of bail–”

  Barnsworth stood again. “I move for nominal bail. My client has no criminal record and an exemplary history of public service.”

  Morrison didn’t hesitate. “These are serious charges. Motion denied. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for one o’clock, November 29. Next case.”

  The witness had come out of nowhere, and Jackson felt his case get shaky. They would need much more than a pubic hair to convict Fieldstone of murder. A lot of wealthy people wanted the mayor to beat the charges, so raising the fifty thousand needed for a bond would be easy. Fieldstone would be out of jail by late afternoon, free to destroy evidence and bribe more witnesses.

  A few minutes before 10 a.m., Slonecker showed up in the conference room with a load of coffee and pastry from Full City. The task force was already there, but Agent Fouts had not made an appearance. While they nibbled on coffee cake, Slonecker launched into a speech about documenting the relationship between Fieldstone and Jessie.

  “I want witnesses. People who saw them together.” The DA rubbed his hands as he talked. “We have enough physical evidence to convince a jury the mayor had sex with Jessie right before her death. But now that he has a witness—even a bogus one—our challenge is to convince the jury that no one but the mayor could have killed her and dumped her in the trash.”

  Jackson was pleased with Slonecker’s passion. The DA had been lukewarm about filing the murder charge, especially knowing that the chief of police was opposed to it. But Fieldstone’s phony witness seemed to have lit a fire under him. Before Jackson could say anything, Agent Fouts walked in.

  “I apologize for being late,” he said without sounding sorry. “I had an unexpected call from my supervisor this morning.”

  Jackson introduced everyone, then turned to Fouts. “Miles Fieldstone has been charged with rape and murder in the Jessie Davenport case. He’s currently in custody.”

  “I’d like to interrogate him about the bombing and ricin incidents.”

  Jackson hesitated, then thought, maybe a little more fear would be good for Fieldstone. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “It is.” Fouts pulled his lips back in what was supposed to be a smile. “I also need access to all your case notes.”

  “Of course. Everyone, hand your notes to McCray, who will photocopy them for Agent Fouts.”

  With obvious skepticism, Slonecker asked, “You think the mayor bombed the Planned Parenthood Clinic?”

  Fouts scowled. “I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to be thorough.” The agent’s phone rang and he stepped out of the room to take the call. McCray followed with the paperwork.

  Slonecker said, “Where were we?”

  “You were talking about witnesses,” Evans reminded him.

  “Right. I want you guys to re-canvass the area around the dumpster. I want someone who saw the mayor that afternoon.”

  Just then, the door swung open and Robert Zapata, from the missing persons office, charged into the conference room. “Excuse me, I’m sorry for interrupting. But I have a case that might interest you.” Zapata’s mustached face was unusually flustered.

  Jackson instantly got an “Oh shit” vibe. “Tell us.”

  “Nicole Clarke left her home last night sometime between 6 and 10 p.m. and did not return. Her parents are hysterical because of what happened to Jessie Davenport. Apparently, the two girls were friends. This is why I’m telling you.”

  The “Oh shit” feeling slid into Jackson’s bowels and squeezed. “Are her parents here now?”

  Zapata nodded. “They’re pretty upset. They called dispatch last night and a patrol officer went to the house and took statements. But there were no signs of struggle, the girl is fourteen, and her parents admitted that she’d been out late on a previous occasion. So Officer Parsons sent out an Amber Alert and told the Clarkes that was all he could do, and if they hadn’t heard from her by this morning, they should come in and fill out a missing persons report. Now they’re here, and they want to know why we haven’t called out the National Guard.”

  Jackson stood up and took a deep breath. “I’ll go talk to them.”

  The Clarkes were both pencil thin, with pinched faces, dull brown hair, and big glasses. They could have been brother and sister. Except Mrs. Clarke also had a long forehead with a deep crease from years of scowling. Zapata had put them in the soft brown interview room, and they huddled close together on the big leather couch. Joanne’s pink sweater was the only bright thing about the couple. But her eyes were swollen with tears just waiting to overflow.

  Jackson introduced himself and sat down across from them. Zapata sat in a chair off to the side with his notes in hand. Neither parent moved to shake Jackson’s hand. They just nodded.

  Before Jackson could speak, Joanne blurted out, “Why isn’t anybody looking for my daughter?”

  “An Amber Alert went out last night, and search and rescue teams will get involved now. But I need to ask you some questions before I can investigate.”

  “We’ve been through this twice now,” Steve Clarke spoke up.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Tell me again. Were you home last night?”

  “No. We went to a meeting in Portland. A Conservative Culture Alliance meeting.” Mr. Clarke tugged at his tie. Jackson realized he was probably still wearing his Sunday church clothes. “We left the house around six o’clock. Nicole was home by herself.”

  Mrs. Clarke cut in. “Nicole’s fourteen and a half and very responsible.”

  “When did you get home?”

  “Just before midnight.” Joanne took the lead again. She leaned forward, as if she could will Jackson into doing something with the force of her physical presence. “We go the first Sunday of every month, and we’ve never had a problem before. Nicole wouldn’t just take off. Something terrible has happened, I just know it.”

  “I assume you’ve called all her friends?”

  “Of course. We called last night and again this morning. We called every place she could possibly be.”

  “Do you have a picture of her with you?”

  “We gave one to Officer Parsons and one to Officer Zapata.”

  Robert opened his file folder and handed the five-by-seven photo to Jackson. The picture didn’t do Nicole justice, Jackson thought. She had seemed quite pretty that day in the school office with her orange blouse and shiny dark hair.

  “Let’s notify the local media that she’s missing. Get her picture out to the public.”

  The Clarkes perked up at the idea, but Jackson was not optimistic.

  Chapter 29

  Monday, October 25, 12:05 p.m.

  Travis Walters and Jeremy Carson left school at noon in Travis’ 95 Toyota Corolla and headed up Willamette Street. Their destination was Edgewood Park near the base of Spencer Butte. It was at the edge of the city limits, in a large wooded area between two new upscale housing developments. They had an hour for their lunch break, the sun was shining, and they intended to enjoy thei
r free time. On the way, they rocked with Kid Rock, and Jeremy rolled a joint from a small bag of pot he’d swiped from his cousin. Jeremy started to light the joint, but Travis protested.

  “Not in the car. My parents will smell it.” Travis had only had his license for three months, and he didn’t want to lose it yet.

  “Pussy.”

  “Shut up.”

  Once they reached the park, they took off on foot for a place known as Party Rock. It was a massive granite outcropping that overlooked a small shaded valley covered with ferns. The view wasn’t that great, but they had the place to themselves and a bright blue sky to sit under.

  They smoked the joint without much discussion. Afterward they talked about a girl they both liked, then had a contest to see who could throw a rock the farthest. Travis won by a good thirty feet.

  “Who’s the pussy now?” he gloated.

  Jeremy flipped him off, then demonstrated his ability to stand on his hands for three minutes. Travis was impressed every time he saw the display.

  Travis checked his watch. It was 1:25 and they had already missed half of fifth period. “Oh crap. We gotta go. I can’t miss algebra again or Peterson will call my parents.”

  “And then you’ll get grounded?” His friend used one of his annoying voices.

  “That’s right.”

  Travis started down the trail back to the parking area. Then wham! Jeremy shoved him off the path and onto the slope. He landed face-first in a bed of ferns.

  “Fucker!” Travis yelled, spitting greenery out of his mouth.

  Jeremy laughed like a donkey.

  Travis put his hands out to push himself up and encountered something strange with his right fingers. It was smooth and cool and a little squishy. He clambered to his feet and stepped down the slope to investigate.

  It was a leg. A bare human leg.

  “Holy shit. Check this out.”

  Jeremy trotted down as Travis pushed some ferns aside for a better look.

  “It’s a girl.”

  “She’s naked.” Jeremy said.

  “She’s dead.” Travis added.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Her skin is cold. I accidentally touched it.”

  “Jesus. This is creepy.” Jeremy stepped toward the body. “Let’s roll her over and look at her tits.”

  Travis pulled him away. “Don’t touch her, you retard.”

  “Check this out,” Jeremy said, reaching down through a clump of ferns next to the body. He came up with a cell phone. “I’ll bet it’s hers.” He grinned. “Was hers. Now it’s mine.”

  “That’s sick, even for you.” Travis just wanted to get out of there. “Let’s go. We have to tell the police.”

  “No way. I’m not talking to the police. I’m too stoned.”

  “I’ll call them when we get back into town.”

  Monday, October 25, 2:07 p.m.

  Jackson got the call as he waited to meet with Sergeant Lammers to discuss Nicole’s disappearance. The dispatcher tried to sound detached, but her voice was shaky. “We just got a call about a body in Edgewood Park,” she said. “The dead person is reportedly a young female.”

  The city had never had back-to-back homicides of young girls. Jackson felt a little shaky too.

  “Any ID on the caller?”

  “He wouldn’t identify himself, and the call came from a cell phone with a blocked caller ID. He sounded like a high school kid. Maybe a little scared. Maybe a little high.”

  “What exactly did he say about the location of the body?”

  She hesitated, as if to read her notes. “It’s on the right side of the trail near Party Rock. That’s a place where–”

  “I’ve heard of it. You know the drill: Get the ME and the DA’s office out there ASAP.”

  Jackson left a message with Lammers, then went in search of his task force team. His afternoon coffee burned in his stomach. What in the hell was going on? If the body was indeed Nicole Clarke, then his theory that the mayor had killed his teenage girlfriend because she was pregnant might be shot to hell. He could be dealing with his first serial killer. Was Agent Fouts on the right track?

  Schakowski and McCray had gone out to re-canvass the neighborhood around Jessie’s crime scene, but Evans was at her desk.

  “We’ve got another one,” he announced.

  “Another what?” She looked up, not understanding.

  “A body in Edgewood Park. Another young girl.”

  “Shit.” Evans was up and moving as she swore. They left the building without speaking again. By the time they hit the parking lot, they were moving at a run.

  “Fieldstone was in custody last night,” Evans said, as Jackson punched the Impala out into the street.

  “He may have an accomplice.”

  Evans gave him a look. “That would be unusual.”

  “But not unheard of.” Jackson suddenly felt defensive about his push to nail Fieldstone. The evidence had led him to a viable suspect, and he wasn’t ready to toss that out. But if a girl had been killed while the mayor was in custody…

  Shit.

  On that Monday afternoon in late October, there was only one car in Edgewood’s unpaved parking lot—a faded red Toyota Celica—and its owners were nowhere in sight. Jackson had drunk an occasional beer on Party Rock during his senior year at Spencer High. And he’d been up here once since, during his third year as a patrol officer, in response to a 911 call about a stabbing. They had arrested the remorseful drunk without incident.

  Jackson grabbed his black bag from the floor of the back seat as Evans climbed out of the car. Before taking off, he called Sergeant Lammers again. This time she picked up, and he requested a canine unit. She respected his need for speed and refrained from asking too many questions. “Full report before the day is over,” she concluded.

  Jackson hustled to catch up with Evans, who had already crossed the clearing and was standing at the head of the trail. As they hiked uphill, the cool damp pine smell brought back memories of camping trips to Silver Lake with his father and brother. Jackson missed those moments of stillness and crisp air. Why hadn’t be been camping in the last ten years? Oh yeah. His daughter hated to be away from her blow dryer and cell phone, even for a weekend, and Renee hated the outdoors. He had one of those rare moments when he wished he’d had a son. It came and went before he had a chance to feel guilty.

  The trail was not a government-maintained hiking venue, so it was kept clear only by foot traffic. There were plenty of deep gouges in the dirt, and in places, fir boughs had to be pushed aside to pass. But overall, the path was well worn and clear of debris, except for the occasional cigarette butt. The distance to the rock was less than half a mile, so he kept looking down the slope side as he walked.

  In a few minutes, he spotted a place where the ferns and other foliage had been trampled. From the trail, he could see patches of naked flesh among the greenery.

  “There she is.”

  Jackson hesitated before moving down for a closer look at the body. There was an opportunity—at this moment—to look around the whole area before it was overrun with investigative personnel and search dogs.

  “Let’s look at the trail for a minute first,” he said to Evans without looking back. He started down the path again. Immediately, a pattern emerged in the dirt under his feet.

  “This is interesting.”

  Jackson stepped to the side of the trail, squatted down, and began to take pictures. Two faint, parallel lines ran lengthwise along the trail, stopping and starting between the footprints.

  “It looks as if something has been dragged,” Evans said.

  “Or someone.” Had the marks been made by the heels of the dead girl as she was dragged from further up the trail?

  Keeping to the side so that they wouldn’t smudge the parallel marks, he and Evans moved down the path. Along the way, Jackson stopped to pull on latex gloves, then bagged and tagged a cigarette butt. It looked as if it had been exposed to the elements
for some time, but it would be foolish to ignore it on that assumption.

  As the trail reached the wide flat area that merged into the rock outcropping, Jackson took more photos of the drag marks. They were more distinct here but had still been smudged in places by shoe prints. The marks faded as the dirt turned to rock.

  “Those look like skater shoe marks,” Evans commented.

  “Probably the kid who called it in.”

  The outcropping was about thirty feet wide and fairly flat. A pocket in the gray and red rock contained the remnants of a freshly smoked joint and several not-so-fresh cigarette butts. Evans took notes, while Jackson put each of the evidence pieces into its own small brown bag.

  “I’m surprised there are no empty alcohol containers,” Evans said with genuine surprise. “I thought kids came up here to drink.”

  “There’s probably enough empty cans and bottles in the brush below to keep a transient happy for life.” Jackson wondered what else was down there in the brush. A murder weapon? The girl’s clothes? He would leave that search for the canine unit.

  “Let’s go look at the body.”

  To preserve the footprints so the evidence tech could make casts, they kept to the side of the trail by stepping in the foliage. Evans expressed gratitude that the recent rain hadn’t turned the area into a mud slough. Jackson wondered about the killer’s activities. Why had he dragged the body back down the trail instead of dumping it off the rock? Because there was less chance of it being seen here?

  When he spotted the pale flesh among the green, Jackson took three long strides down the slope, being careful not to step on exposed dirt and leave footprints. He kept his feet on the short ferns that had already been flattened by the killer, the victim, and/ or the person who had found her. Or had the killer called in the body himself? A psycho might do that as part of the game. Evans followed him, taking giant steps to stay in the same areas.

  The girl was face down, nude, and unbruised. A couple of small scratches on her back and legs looked postmortem, probably made when she was dragged or rolled down the slope. Jackson snapped a few photos. Her long dark hair was bunched around her head but was surprisingly free of twigs or leaves. He took a close-up shot of her heels, which were darkened with dirt, supporting his theory that someone had held her by the armpits and dragged her along the path.