Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For

by L. J. Sellers

  “I don’t have a routine. Not anymore.” Her voice was more adult than her appearance.

  “Let’s start with the guy who attacked you. Did you see him at all?”

  She blinked and her eyes started to water. “I don’t want to talk about him. I told the other cop everything I know.”

  Jackson decided to move on before she shut down completely. “Okay, let’s talk about your routine instead. I know that you work as a bartender at the Black Forest. Any customers there who have shown a special interest or maybe threatened you in some way?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a bar full of drunk men. They all creep me out.”

  Jackson felt a flicker of irritation. “He’s attacked two women, maybe three, and he’ll likely rape another. He’s probably scoping her out right now. If we can figure out how he chooses his targets, we have a chance of stopping him.”

  Amy closed her eyes, gathered some courage, then said, “Nobody at the bar comes to mind. What else do you want to know?”

  “What do you do when you’re not at work?”

  “I write. You know, short stories, poems, essays.” She brightened a little. “I have an idea for a novel, but I need to get myself in a better space before I can start writing it.”

  “Do you belong to a writer’s group?” Jackson jotted down short stories, poems.

  “No.”

  “Any clubs? Or other hobbies?”

  “I go to the Women for Women meetings on Saturday sometimes.”

  “Do any men attend?”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “It’s called Women for Women for a reason.”

  Chapter 8

  Now Jackson understood. Amy was a lesbian. He felt a little stupid and a little charged at the same time. “Do you know Keesha Williams?”

  Another eye rolling from Amy. “No. And I don’t know if she’s into chicks. You’ll have to ask her.”

  Jackson would have called Keesha that instant if he’d had her number handy.

  “Where does the women’s group meet?”

  “Over on Agate, in the community building.”

  “Have you ever noticed a guy hanging around there? Across the street, watching maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Did your attacker say anything, I mean, about your being a lesbian?” Jackson didn’t know if the term was offensive or not. This was new and unpaved territory.

  “He called me a dyke bitch. He said I needed to know what a cock felt like.”

  “Did you tell any of this to Detective Quince?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t ask.” Amy shook her head. “And I was traumatized and didn’t want to talk about it.”

  Jackson asked her a few more questions, extracted her cell phone number in case he needed to talk to her again, and excused himself. In the car, he called Quince.

  “Jackson here. Funny question for you. Is Keesha Williams a lesbian?”

  Silence. Then from Quince, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”

  “What about Amy Hastings? Did you know that she was a lesbian?” Jackson started the cruiser, plugged his ear-bud into his cell phone, and pulled out into the street.

  Quince cleared his throat. “I suspected so, but I didn’t specifically ask her.”

  “Why not?”

  More silence.

  Then Jackson said, “It’s not a criticism. I just want to know what your thought process was.”

  “It didn’t really come up. The one girl in the house looked kinda butch, so I wondered. Then the butch girl seemed a little protective of Amy. But nothing Amy said implied her sexual orientation, and I didn’t ask. It seemed, uh”—Quince struggled for the right expression—”politically incorrect.”

  “Give me Keesha’s phone number and address. Politically correct or not, I need to know. I think these might be hate crimes.” Jackson turned left on 18th and headed west, remembering that Keesha lived near Bailey Hill somewhere.

  “I never thought about that. Jesus.” Quince’s distress was palpable. “She lives in those apartments on Wilshire. Let me find her exact information and I’ll call you back.”

  Jackson waited in Keesha’s driveway for fifty minutes. He’d spoken to her briefly at work and she agreed to meet him at her apartment on a break. The huge complex of condos had been built recently, and the creamy yellow paint still looked new, even in the shade of the giant fir and oak trees. Give it a few years, Jackson thought. They’ll be fighting the mold and moss like everyone else on the south hills.

  A RAV4 pulled in beside him and a young woman wearing lavender scrubs climbed out. Jackson could see why Quince had said the victims were not chosen for a physical type. Unlike Amy, Keesha was sturdy and had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. As Jackson followed her into the condo, he wondered how a young dental assistant could afford the place. Keesha perched on the edge of her brown velour couch and clenched her hands tightly together. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

  No introductions, no small talk. Okay. Jackson smiled at her. “Are you a lesbian?”

  She recoiled for a second, then straightened her shoulders. “Yes. Why does it matter?”

  “The second woman who was attacked is also a lesbian. Now that we have that information, it might help us track and apprehend the rapist.”

  “He’s attacking gay women?” She didn’t want to believe it.

  “It’s a new working theory. Can you help me with it?” Jackson kept his voice soft. “Do you attend any lesbian meetings?”

  “What meetings?” Keesha’s sharp head shake and annoyed expression told him she couldn’t believe he’d asked her something so stupid. “Do you think all lesbian women belong to the same club?”

  “The other victim went to meetings called Women for Women. I’m trying to figure out how he identified both of you.”

  Keesha’s composure crumpled a bit. “I’m not involved in any groups, political or social. But the truth is, that’s why I’m in Eugene. Because of the lesbian community. Because of the acceptance.” She pressed her hands to her face. “Now I find out I was raped because I’m gay. I knew there were homophobic assholes here, I’ve just never had a serious confrontation before this.” Keesha started to cry. “If it isn’t safe for lesbians in Eugene, where in God’s name can I live?”

  Jackson’s instinct was to comfort her, but he resisted. Touching any woman while acting as a police officer was potentially problematic, and this woman might find it especially offensive. Why did he assume that? Because she had recently been raped? Or because she was gay? Lesbian women didn’t hate men, he reminded himself. They just weren’t sexually attracted to them. This line of questioning could so easily backfire on him. No wonder Detective Quince had avoided the subject.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll find the bastard and put him in jail.”

  After a moment, Keesha dried her face and sat up straight again.

  “I need to ask a few more questions. They may be unpleasant.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Go ahead.”

  “Did he say anything to you about being a lesbian?”

  “He called me a black cunt. I thought it was about my skin color.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me that will help identify him? Such as any specific words he used. Did he have an accent, or was he from the west coast?”

  Keesha shook her head. “I’ve thought about it over and over. But it all happened so fast. And I was half unconscious. He didn’t talk much. I already told the other detective that he sounded young, I mean under thirty. He was very strong and he smelled like a smoker.”

  “Did he use any kind of object to assault you?”

  Keesha’s eyes flew open in alarm. “Thank God, no.”

  Jackson stood to leave. “I may need to talk with you again.”

  She let out a sigh. “Just call me. We can do it over the phone.”

  As soon as he was in the car, Jackson called Evans. “Have you talked to Jami
e again?”

  “Not yet. I talked to Raina’s grandmother and a friend of Raina’s named Paul Phillips. They both say Raina was a saint.”

  “Anybody mention that she might be a lesbian?”

  “Are you serious?” Evans sounded confused.

  “I just discovered the two rape victims were both lesbians.” Jackson backed out of the narrow parking space and headed toward Timberline Road. “So now we know something about how the perp picks his victims and what his profile looks like. The question of the day is: Were Raina and Jamie lovers?”

  “I’ll ask her.” Evans paused. “I’m not sure the use of lesbian is politically correct.”

  “Then what is? I know we have to be sensitive, but we’re already behind on this case because Quince was afraid to ask the right questions.” Jackson knew he sounded irritated, but it had nothing to do with Evans.

  She didn’t let it bother her. “Let’s find out what is politically correct. Maybe the department needs some guidelines.”

  “Not a bad idea. Call me as soon as you know anything. If Raina was lesbian, gay, or whatever, then she’s probably victim number three and we need to merge these cases.”

  “What about Gorman?”

  “Maybe he’s a homophobic rapist and killer. In a day or two, his DNA test will let us know. I’m heading over to the jail now to chat with him again. I’ll bring up lesbians and see how he reacts.”

  The county jail was nestled between downtown Eugene and Skinner’s Butte, only blocks from upscale shopping, dining, and theater going. You could see the two-story red-brick jail from the glass-walled top floor of the Hilton. From the Hult Center for the Performing Arts, you could throw a baseball and hit the jail. The location had never made sense to Jackson, but that was Eugene. No real development plan. Originally, just haphazard growth along the river—some stretches filled with high-end office buildings and hotels and other sections littered with metal auto mechanic shacks and decrepit buildings. Urban sprawl had carried the mixed theme north and west. Downtown was equally confused; new condos and upscale shops were built next to buildings that were boarded over. Thank God for the rivers, the long stretch of well-maintained parks along the rivers, and the beautiful blanket of trees covering nearly every street and neighborhood across the valley town. Without the canopy of green, Eugene, in places, could be an eyesore.

  Jackson climbed the stairs to the jail’s admitting area, flashed his ID, and asked to see Bruce Gorman. The young sheriff at the desk punched the name into the computer, then looked up and said, “He’s been released.”

  “No.” Jackson shook his head. “That must be an error. Gorman is being held for questioning in a murder case.”

  Panic blossomed in the woman’s eyes. “Let me check again.” After a moment she said, “He’s not in the system. The record shows he was charged with possession of a Class 2 narcotic. He was matrixed out at 4:45 this afternoon.”

  Jackson closed his eyes and fought the urge to scream obscenities. Twenty fucking minutes ago. Goddamn matrix system!

  One wing of the jail had been shut down years before because the county didn’t have the money to staff it. Now they used the matrix, a system of points allocated to inmates based on flight risk, recent history of violence, and seriousness of the charge, to decide who stayed in and who got to walk. Because of the volume of drug offenders, hardly anybody stayed more than a day or two.

  Jackson took a deep breath and said, “When I booked him in, I requested that Gorman be flagged for non-release. Is that request in his file?”

  “I don’t see it, sir.”

  Jackson wanted to march back to Captain Treager’s office and express his frustration, but Treager was gone for the day, and Gorman might already be headed for the border. Jackson clamped his jaws shut and headed out. Now what?

  He called dispatch, put out a BOLO (be on lookout) for Gorman and his blue Bronco, then drove west and out of town toward Pine Grove. Jackson had no expectation of finding Gorman at home, but he had to check. Sometimes criminals were incredibly stupid, and they always counted on luck.

  Gorman had been there and gone, taking the Bronco and leaving the trailer dark and quiet. Josh was with his caseworker, and Cindy was still in jail on charges of assaulting a police officer. Oh shit. Was she still there? Jackson called the jail information line and was reassured that Cindy Gorman was still in residence. Assaulting a police officer earned high points, and the women’s wing of the jail didn’t suffer the same level of overcrowding. Because females committed fewer crimes, they were held until their court dates. It was messed up, but not high on his priority of things to worry about or change.

  As Jackson drove out the Gormans’ gravel driveway, moving at a snail’s pace to avoid tearing out his suspension, he gave Kera a quick call. “Hey, Kera. How are you?”

  Slight hesitation. “I’m good. I miss you.”

  “Me too. I thought we might have a quick dinner together, either later tonight or tomorrow. With Katie too. I need to see both of you.” Jackson had left Katie a message earlier when she was still at school, and she hadn’t called back yet.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t right now.”

  He heard stress in her voice. “What’s going on, Kera?”

  “Daniel’s here.”

  A sucker punch to the gut…with a screwdriver. Daniel was Kera’s soon-to-be-ex-husband. Her attempts to divorce him while he was in Iraq—after he had pronounced their marriage over—proved problematic.

  Jackson faked casual. “We figured he’d be back in town eventually.”

  “Yep.” A pause. “Don’t worry, Wade. You and I are going to be fine. I just need a little time to work through some stuff with Daniel. This has been a rough year for both of us.”

  “Do what you need to do, Hon. I’ll be here. I’ll let you go now.”

  Jackson clicked the phone shut before he said anything else. He turned onto Pine Grove and punched the accelerator, pleased with how supportive he sounded. Especially considering he wanted to drive over to Kera’s, drag Kollmorgan outside, and beat the crap out of him.

  Would Kera have sex with Daniel? Technically, he was still her husband; the divorce paperwork was still in process. The screwdriver dug around in Jackson’s bowels, and he sucked in a load of oxygen. No, she wouldn’t. He had to put that thought out of his mind. Kera and Daniel had been married a long time. They had a son together. Even though their son had been killed in Iraq, the bond was still there. The parent-child bond was like no other.

  Oh shit. Jackson suddenly knew where Bruce Gorman was. During the interrogation, Gorman had reacted almost hysterically to the possibility of losing custody of Josh. His lowlife suspect would likely abandon his jailed wife without a second thought, but Gorman wouldn’t leave town without his son.

  Pushing the Impala to seventy, Jackson flew back into town along Highway 126. He called dispatch to get Mariah Martin’s address and to request patrol unit backup. He learned the social worker lived east of the university in a hillside subdivision called Moon Mountain. He could only get there by going downtown, then crawling through the heavy traffic around the University of Oregon. Jackson weaved in and out of the parade of cars, finally reaching the turnoff. It was a short climb to the subdivision.

  The neighborhood was a mix of old and new homes, most with valley views and all with hefty price tags. Jackson spotted the dark blue Bronco parked on the street as he drove up Laurel Hill. Relief washed over him at first. His suspect had not yet fled the state with his eyewitness. Josh might still be able to tell him what happened. As Jackson parked his car a few houses away, his muscles tightened with tension. This could be a high-drama showdown. Would Gorman be armed?

  Jackson kept his hand on his Sig Sauer as he moved quickly toward the two-story house. The darkness worked to his advantage. Gorman wouldn’t see him unless he was watching out a window. Jackson rushed up behind a skinny maple tree in the front yard, turned sideways for cover, and dialed Martin. After six rings, she answ
ered, “Hello, Mom. I’m kinda busy right now.” A quick pause. “No, I’m fine, just in the middle of something.” Then she hung up.

  What was Martin trying to say? Jackson tried to translate. The social worker didn’t feel threatened and wanted some time to finish negotiating with Gorman. Was that it? The big question remained unanswered: Did Gorman have a weapon? Jackson wanted a look inside. He stepped out from behind the tree, dropped to a squat, and duck-walked up to the front window, keeping his head below the frame. The light-weight curtains were closed, but when Jackson popped his head up for a second he could see through them. No one was in the living room.