“Loki, it’s Jackson. How are you?”
“I’m good. Can I call you back in a few minutes, Mom?”
Jackson smiled into the phone. “Sure.”
Jackson drove around the corner to the little coffee shop where they sometimes met and waited in the car for Loki to call. In a moment, the phone rang. “Hey Detective, sorry about that. My neighbor was over, and I can’t be too careful.”
“Do you have five minutes right now?”
“How much is it worth?”
“Same as always. Twenty. If I get something useful, forty.”
“Haven’t you heard of inflation? The clinic costs me $275 dollars a month now.” Loki was referring to the methadone program he was enrolled in. That was the only reason he was willing to sell information to law enforcement. The methadone kept him off heroin and out of jail, but it was expensive.
“I’m in my car outside the coffee shop. See you in a minute.”
Loki, a skinny man with a buzz cut and little diamond studs in his ears, was bundled up like a Mount Everest hiker. He hopped into the passenger seat and slumped low. “I’m gonna get killed one of these days, talking to you.” The smell of cigarettes and fruity gum filled the car.
Jackson drove up 18th toward Jefferson. “Do you know anybody dealing Vicodin to students at Lane Community College?”
Loki shrugged. “I can ask around. Nobody comes to mind though. It’s not really my crowd. Where are we headed?”
“To an apartment complex on the corner of Jefferson and 23rd.”
“Why?”
“Ryan Bodehammer lives there. Have you ever heard the name?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Just a guy I’m looking for.” Jackson reached in his bag and pulled out the file he’d printed from CODIS. He handed it to Loki. “Here’s his mug shot. It’s a few years old.”
“I’ve seen this dude.”
“Where?” Jackson suppressed his excitement. Loki was in this conversation for the forty bucks.
“Maybe at the park up on 24th and Polk.”
“What was he doing?”
“Watching some chicks play soccer.”
“What else?”
“I think he had a camera.”
“When did you see him?”
“Months ago. Maybe around Thanksgiving. But I’m not sure.” Loki laughed. “You know I can’t keep track of time.”
“Was that the only time you saw him?” Jackson turned left on Jefferson. They were five blocks from Bodehammer’s apartment.
“Yeah.”
“He lives right up here. I want you to look at his apartment and see if it triggers your memory.”
Jackson pulled into the small parking lot. “Corner apartment. Number three.”
“I didn’t say I knew him. I said I saw him once. At the park.” Loki sounded irritated. “I need to get back. My mother is coming to pick me up in a few minutes.”
Jackson reluctantly gave his snitch two twenties, then dropped him off at the coffee shop and called headquarters. “Put a patrol unit on the park at the corner of 24th and Polk. They’re looking for Ryan Bodehammer. Blond, blue-eyed, bad teeth, five foot ten, and a hundred seventy pounds. Wears a jean jacket with a fleece lining and may be carrying a camera.”
Encouraged, Jackson called Ed Stevens, his FBI contact, as he drove back to headquarters, where he planned to get on his computer for a minute. He was pleasantly surprised when Stevens answered. “Hey, Jackson. I was just going to call you.”
“What have you got for me?”
“Not much. But I found a similar case in Texas, in which the rapist targeted lesbians. He had been watching a group of gay women, who met socially once a month, for years before he started raping victims. Interestingly, he didn’t target anyone in the group he had been watching. But that may have been because his sister was part of the group.”
“Strange. So is it safe to say that our suspect could be both fascinated and repulsed by gay women?”
“Definitely.”
“What about a college professor who teaches writing classes?”
“This guy had all the victims as students?”
“Yes.”
“Possible. But it doesn’t get any neurons firing for me. Unless he has a history of voyeurism, assault, or sexual abuse. Who else are you looking at?”
“A young man who set his girlfriend’s car on fire and wrote letters to her from jail calling her a dyke. He also hates his stepmother and refers to her as a dyke as well. He’s also bipolar and off his meds.”
Stevens let out a soft laugh. “Oh yeah. He gets my neurons firing.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
After a few minutes at his desk, reading back through his notes about each of the victims, Jackson called Carlie Jones at the Goodwill on Seneca. “Ms. Jones, would you find Ryan Bodehammer’s employment application and see if he listed an emergency contact?”
“Of course. Can you hold?”
It took her two minutes. “He listed David Bodehammer with the phone number, 686-1321.”
“Do you have an address?”
“No. Sorry.”
Evans walked up as Jackson disconnected. “His father’s name is—”
“David Bodehammer.” Jackson and Evans said it simultaneously. “What about an address?”
Evans looked distressed. “He’s not on Lane County property tax rolls, and he’s not in the database. I only found his name from a court record when he spoke at his son’s sentencing for the arson.”
“Keep digging. His PO said that after his father died, Ryan Bodehammer expected to inherit his father’s house, then it didn’t happen because of some legalities involving whose name was on the deed. We need to find out where his father lived and what happened to the house.”
Evans raised her eyebrows. “You sound excited. You think he’s our guy?”
“Stevens in the Portland FBI office says Bodehammer gets his neurons firing. “
“I’ll stay on it.”
“I’m going back over to his apartment complex to talk to his neighbors.”
Only one of Bodehammer’s neighbors was home, a twenty-something woman with a three-year-old boy clinging to her legs.
“I’m Detective Jackson with the Eugene police department. What’s your name?”
“Keri Sanders. Am I in trouble?”
“I just need some information. Do you know your neighbor in unit three? His name is Ryan Bodehammer.”
She looked confused for a minute, then said, “Oh, Ryan. Sure. He babysat for me once.”
What the hell? Poor little boy. Jackson tried to keep his face deadpan. “Did you ever see or meet Ryan’s father?”
“No, but I know he died and Ryan was pretty upset about it.”
“Do you have any idea where his father lived?”
“No. Why would I?” The little boy started to whine, so she picked him up and plopped him on her hip.
“Did he have any close friends? Anywhere he might stay when he wasn’t here?”
She suddenly looked concerned. “Is Ryan in trouble?”
“I’m just trying to find him and I appreciate any help you can give me. Do you know where he might be?”
Keri shook her head.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Day before yesterday?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Does Ryan ever drive a car?”
“Oh sure. He has a blue van.”
“Can you give me a detailed description? Make, model, shade of blue. Any significant décor or bumper stickers?”
Keri brightened at this question. “It’s dark blue. Not navy, just medium dark. I don’t know what kind of van it is, but it’s older, you know, and it doesn’t have seats in the back.”
“A cargo van?”
“That sounds right.”
“Any markings, murals, bumper stickers?”
“What ar
e murals?”
“Pictures or paintings.”
“No. It’s very plain, except for the big scratch along the passenger side. Like someone keyed it.”
Jackson handed her his business card. “If you think of anything you know that might help me locate Ryan, please call. This is very important.”
“Sure.”
Jackson called Whitstone and gave her the van’s description. She was on a quick break while he was at the apartment complex. He also called in the information to dispatch and put out a BOLO for the van. Without a license plate number, it was a crapshoot, but he had to try everything. He sat in his car in the small parking lot behind the apartments and mulled over the new developments. What he still didn’t have was Bodehammer’s connection to the victims. How did he know them? How did he choose them? If Jackson knew that, he could probably find Bodehammer.
With the college professor, it was a no-brainer. The women had been in his class, and in time, he became aware of their homosexuality. Then he started following them, planning the right time and place for an attack. Jackson called Quince but he didn’t answer, so he left a brief message asking him to call.
Sitting and waiting for Evans or Quince to call was getting him nowhere and driving his blood pressure up. He could feel the tightness in his chest. As soon as Whitstone checked back in, Jackson drove over to the evidence lab on Garfield. He still didn’t know if there was any physical evidence connecting all three crimes.
Jasmine was back in the lab, and it gave him a burst of optimism to see her. Jasmine would give him something he could use, something that would help him move this case forward in a focused direction instead of keeping him chasing around all these unconnected leads.
“Detective Jackson.” She looked up from a report and peeked around her computer monitor. “How’s it going?”
“Mixed bag. What have you got for me?”
“I just received the DNA report comparing Gorman’s saliva sample to the semen from the two rape cases. Unfortunately, there’s no match.” Jasmine tried to look empathetic but didn’t quite pull it off.
Jackson had braced himself for this news, yet it still gave him a twinge of disappointment. Pinning all the crimes on Gorman would have made his life so much easier. On the other hand, just because Gorman was not the serial rapist didn’t mean he was innocent. Gorman still could have killed Raina in a meth rage, and Jackson didn’t plan to release him until he had a confession from someone else. “What about the blond hair found on Raina’s body?”
Jasmine smiled, a rare treat. “Better news there. It matches the semen from the rape cases.”
Bingo! He finally had DNA linking all three attacks. Whether it was the arsonist gay-hater or the college professor, once they had his DNA, they would convict the bastard on all three counts. “Any loose ends I forgot to ask about?” For a moment, Jackson couldn’t remember what other evidence he was waiting for. The body in the car at the lookout point now seemed strangely disconnected from his current line of investigation.
“Joe finished his report on the tire tracks. They were made by a BF Goodrich tire, model number LT245/70R16 113Q. Most commonly found on late-model Dodge trucks.”
“Find out if the tire would fit an older cargo van.”
“I’m skeptical, but I’ll check.”
“Do the casings match the treads on Gorman’s Bronco?”
Jasmine’s smooth face tightened a bit. “I don’t know. I wasn’t here over the weekend, and I don’t know if Joe made a comparison. I’ll look into it and call you ASAP.”
“Thanks.” Jackson started to leave.
“Wait a sec.” Jackson turned back as Jasmine said, “I processed the items that the patrol officers picked up in their search of the Gormans’ property. Would you like to see them?”
“Sure.” Jackson expected it to be a waste of time, but he hated to skip over anything.
Jasmine retrieved a large metal box from a side table and pulled off the lid. “There’s nothing too exciting here but I figured you should see it.”
The box contained an empty crushed Pall Mall package, five rusty pennies, a Bic pen that looked like it had been outside for twenty years, a small black button, a spoon with dark drug residue, and a weathered brown wallet. Jackson pulled on gloves and picked up the wallet. “Did you get any prints?”
“A partial. No match so far in the database.”
The wallet held only a few slips of worn paper that might have been receipts at one point. It looked like someone had pulled out everything of value and tossed the wallet. “Anything you can tell me about any of this stuff?” Jackson gestured at the metal box.
“Unfortunately no.” Jasmine gave a tiny shrug. “I just thought you’d want to see it. Especially the cigarette package. It looks like it was dropped recently, and maybe someone you’re investigating smokes Pall Malls.”
“I’ll check it out.”
As Jackson headed to the department, he wondered what kind of vehicle Derrick Michelson drove. He couldn’t visualize the writing professor driving a big new truck, but he would wait for the facts. It had become clear lately that stereotyping people could hurt an investigation. The tire tracks still confused him, but they were not a priority. Gorman could have made them. Or Bodehammer could have stolen a truck, then abandoned it after killing Raina. Bodehammer could be a Pall Mall smoker too, but he hadn’t left any butts or trash around to check.
Back at his desk, Jackson wrote out a subpoena to search Ryan Bodehammer’s apartment. He didn’t have much of a case, not even circumstantial, and he half expected the request to be turned down. Bodehammer had violated his parole by missing his check-in with his PO, so there was probably a warrant for his arrest. Judge Cranston might sign it on the strength of that alone.
“Hey, Jackson. I hear you caught a hot potato case.” Ed McCray walked up, his skin looking nearly as brown as his corduroy pants and jacket. The detective was lean and gray-haired and had a pleasant well-worn face.
“Ed. Good to have you back. How was Hawaii?”
“It’s an amazing place. I see why it’s the number one vacation spot.”
“You have a tan. I’ve never seen you with a tan.”
“Get over it.” McCray laughed, then got back to business. “Sergeant Lammers said you could probably use me.”
“Always.” Jackson loved working with McCray because he was tenacious, but never competitive or egotistic. “In fact, I’d like you to take this subpoena to Judge Cranston and lean hard on him. I’ll give you the basics of the case now, then you can read my full notes later.”
Jackson’s briefing was interrupted by a call from Detective Quince. Jackson took the call and signaled for McCray to move on the subpoena. “What have you got?”
“I’m bringing Derrick Michelson in now. In fact, we’re in the parking lot. He wants his lawyer present.”
“Let him make the call.” Jackson started to hang up, then asked, “What does he drive?”
“Just a sec.” Quince repeated the question to Michelson, who Jackson imagined was in the back seat, handcuffed and indignantly annoyed. “He owns a 2005 Mini Cooper and a 1991 Dodge truck.”
Jackson tried not to react but made a little grunting sound anyway. The professor was still in the game. “See you in the interrogation room.”
Sophie drove south on Alder, a long residential street leading from the University of Oregon to 30th Avenue and Lane Community College. The houses were older and packed pretty tightly together, but it was a great location for anyone attending higher education classes in Eugene. It was also a great location for someone teaching poetry to academic types.
As Sophie approached the small duplex in the twentieth block, her phone rang and the screen said Keesha Williams. She pressed answer and kept driving. “Hello Keesha. Thanks for calling.”
“How could I not?” There was a hint of panic in her voice. “I did take a poetry workshop, but the teacher’s name is not Mac. Her name is Michelle Peterson, but some peop
le called her Mick. How did you know? And what does it have to do with the assault on me?”
“One of the other rape victims also wrote poetry and had recently taken a workshop. I’m looking for a connection and I think I found it.”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For Page 19