Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For

by L. J. Sellers

  As Jackson hurried across the downtown area, he nearly hit a homeless man who suddenly bolted across Olive Street on a stolen bike. Jackson braked and held his tongue. Something had to be done about Eugene’s downtown. The area was crawling with drug dealers, transients, and runaway teenagers. As he passed Eugene’s gorgeous new library, a throng of tattooed, pierced, and scruffy young people sprawled on the sidewalk around the brick building. The bus station across the street brought them here and dumped them off to hang out. As darkness fell, they would soon be on the move, looking for a meal and a place to sleep. It was safer downtown at night than in broad daylight.

  Jackson swore at the slow moving clog of cars heading home from work on Amazon Parkway. He could feel his chest tightening again and forced himself to breathe deeply. He was still fully agitated when he arrived at the twentieth block of Alder Street. The neighborhood was technically in south Eugene, but it was in the flatlands and the homes were older one-story buildings. Jackson slowed to a crawl, looking for house numbers. The area was not well lit either.

  In a few minutes he found the address on one side of a small duplex. He parked behind a Scion and wondered if the car belonged to Sophie. She seemed like the carbon-footprint-conscious type. He jogged up the sidewalk, again wondering how Sophie had found this connection. Would it lead to Bodehammer?

  A large woman with a distressed look and gin on her breath opened the door. “Detective Jackson?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Michelle Peterson.” She shook his hand, then led him into the living room. “I assume you know Sophie Speranza.”

  Jackson nodded. He had seen Sophie briefly once at a bit of a distance, but they had never been face to face in a room before. All of their conversations had taken place on the phone. He was surprised at her attractiveness—and her professional appearance. He had thought she would be more subculture, a tattoo or piercing or at least the jeans and T-shirt type. Instead she was neatly dressed in a skirt and blouse. Sophie stood and offered her hand. Jackson shook it, deciding that he would put aside the past and forget she and a photographer had ambushed him while he was bringing in the handcuffed mayor and their front-page story had nearly ruined his career.

  “Thanks for contacting me, Ms. Speranza. I’d like to know how you pulled this information together.”

  “Please call me Sophie.” She sat back down and grabbed her notepad from the floor. “I interviewed Keesha Williams yesterday and she mentioned that she wrote poetry. Then I interviewed Amy Hastings’ roommate this morning—Amy wasn’t available—and her roommate told me Amy was a writer and a poet. So I realized that poetry could be the connection. Then I asked about taking poetry classes, and when two of the women confirmed they had, I dug around and got Michelle’s name from a friend.”

  Jackson cringed that he had failed to elicit the poetry connection. He’d learned Amy was a writer, but Keesha was a dental assistant and writing had never come up. Was he getting sloppy? “What friend?”

  “Derrick Michelson. He teaches writing classes at LCC and is president of Eugene Writer’s Group.”

  Jackson was stunned. Michelson again. Was he just a professor who happened to have contact with all three women, or was he a sociopath who was clever enough to throw suspicion on someone else when the opportunity presented itself? “How well do you know Michelson?”

  Sophie shrugged. “We dated for a while, but I knew him socially for years before that. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Jackson had no reason to share Michelson’s status as a suspect with her, even if she had put this case together. He finally took a seat and turned to Michelle, who was staring into her drink. “Ms. Peterson, can you confirm that Amy Hastings, Keesha Williams, and Raina Hughes all took a poetry class from you?”

  “The first two, yes. The name Raina is not familiar, but I’d have to look at my records to be sure.”

  “I’d like you to do that, but not yet. First, I want to ask some other questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where are the poetry classes held?”

  “Next door in the other side of the duplex.”

  “Was there a male in the class with Amy and Keesha?”

  “The two women were not in the same workshop, but there was no male in either class. They both took a workshop designed for lesbian women. Just not at the same time.”

  “What about neighbors? Have you ever noticed a man hanging around? Watching your students come and go?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I would have reported it.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Ryan Bodehammer?”

  Michelle looked upset but not surprised. She glanced at Sophie, then took another gulp of her drink before answering. “Ryan Bodehammer is my ex-husband’s son.”

  A surge of adrenaline shot through Jackson, forcing him out of his chair.

  “Do you know where I can find him?” Jackson tried to keep his voice flat, but his excitement was palpable.

  “I think he still has an apartment over on Jefferson and 23rd. But I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since the funeral.”

  “His dad’s funeral?”

  “Yes. We’d been divorced for two years, but I went out of respect. I shouldn’t have though. Ryan was clearly still angry at me.”

  Impatience made Jackson want to jump out of his skin. He wanted a location now, but he also needed the background story. “Why was he angry at you?”

  “I left his father and moved in with another woman, a lover. Neither David nor Ryan took it well.” A shudder ran through her ample body. “They’re homophobes. It took me a while to realize it.” Michelle sipped her drink and looked ashamed. “In fact, I realized it about the time I accepted the idea that I was in love with and sexually attracted to a woman. It’s a little embarrassing not to know who you really are until the age of forty-six. But better late than never.”

  “What’s the address of David Bodehammer’s house?”

  Michelle was in her own thoughts. “It’s so hard to think that Ryan could be a rapist and killer.” Michelle stood and sounded as if she were about to break into sobs. “Did I drive him to this? He was a troubled young man before I ever met him. But my leaving his father for another woman must have pushed him over the edge.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. His PO thinks his father’s death triggered a downward spiral.”

  “I believe that. They were very close.” She made a face. “No one else could stand them. Not even Scott, the older son.”

  “Ryan has a brother?”

  “Scott is ten years older than Ryan, so he had already moved out on his own when I married David.” She shuddered again. “God, what a mistake that was.”

  “So the brothers are not close?”

  “They have an on-again, off-again relationship. Mostly because Ryan is so unpredictable. But Scott always forgives him and takes him back.”

  “Would Ryan go to his brother’s home if he was off his meds and spinning?” Jackson used Conner’s term for lack of a better one.

  “Very likely. Scott is almost the exact opposite of Ryan. Stable, rational, open-minded. Now that his father is dead, Ryan probably will look to Scott to fill that role in his life.”

  “Do you have Scott’s address and phone number?”

  Michelle scowled. “I do somewhere.” She moved toward an end table where the cordless phone sat. “He lives in Creswell.”

  Jackson groaned to himself about the drive. He was in a hurry!

  Sophie, who had sat quietly during their conversation, suddenly said to Jackson, “Can I go with you?”

  “No.”

  “But I’ve helped you with this case.”

  “I appreciate that. But this is police business and it could be dangerous.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “You will give me an interview, won’t you? I think I’ve earned it.”

  Jackson was not in the mood to think about how the media would treat this investigation, but Sophie’s information w
as proving to be critical. If he talked to her, he could control the tone and flow. “A short one.”

  “Thank you.”

  Michelle came up with an address book and began to thumb through it. “I never use this anymore. I quit sending Christmas cards and snail-mail letters, and everyone I call is in my cell phone address book.”

  Jackson tapped his pen on his pad.

  After another moment, Michelle produced a phone number and address. “I hope it’s current.”

  Jackson jotted both down, then asked, “What about his dad’s house?”

  “1307 Pondview. But the house is mostly empty and locked up and there’s no heat. So it’s not inhabitable. David kept the house in his ex-wife’s name to avoid paying property taxes. No one seems to know where she is. So now it’s in limbo. I’ve filed a claim for it, but it may take years.”

  “Any other friends Ryan might stay with?”

  “Not that I know of. Ryan’s mostly a loner, except for the occasional temporary girlfriend.”

  “Why temporary?”

  Michelle looked surprised. “He’s mentally ill. But he’s also attractive and can be charming for the first five minutes. Which is how I ended up with his father.”

  Jackson was anxious to get on the road, but he sensed Michelle might have more information. He just wasn’t sure what it could be. “How do you think Ryan was able to target your students?”

  “I don’t know.” Michelle kept squeezing her hands, one with the other. “This is so upsetting to me. I guess he could have been watching my duplex.”

  “Has he ever visited you here or attended any workshops?”

  She made a funny choking noise. “Not a chance in hell.”

  Jackson pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Please contact me if you think of anything that might help us find Ryan.” As he walked to his car, Jackson glanced back through the window to see if Sophie was making any move to leave. He wouldn’t put it past her to follow him and try to insert herself further into this investigation.

  Chapter 27

  Jackson called the four detectives on his taskforce, leaving messages to meet him at the department in twenty minutes if they could, but to call back for an update either way. Only one picked up. “Schak here. What’s the word?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Sitting in front of Butch Seltzer’s girlfriend’s house. I think I can hear them fighting from here.”

  “Butch is a dead end. Meet me in the conference room in twenty minutes. I need to get everyone involved in the search for Bodehammer.”

  Evans was waiting in the conference room when Jackson arrived. “Sorry I missed your call,” she said. “I was in the ladies room.”

  “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Jackson was grateful to have such a dedicated and responsive team. It was after five o’clock on Monday and the real work was just getting started.

  Quince came in moments later, looking glum. “I didn’t get the subpoena for Michelson’s DNA. Judge Volcansek said that requesting Professor Michelson’s DNA because all three women had been in his class was like asking for her DNA because all three victims had been in her courtroom.” Quince plopped into a chair. “She said that in some careers you happen to come in contact with a lot of people.”

  Jackson didn’t agree with the logic but shrugged it off. At the moment Michelson was not a priority. Schak rushed in. “I was out in Springfield on 42nd Street.”

  “You’re fine. We’re just starting.” Jackson stood, hoping to sound and feel energized. His body was rag-tired and hungry, but there was no stopping for a break. “This is the situation. Ryan Bodehammer has become our primary suspect. His ex-stepmother is a lesbian poet named Michelle Peterson who left Bodehammer’s father for another woman.” Jackson held up his index finger. “So we have motive. She teaches workshops out of her duplex and has confirmed that the first two rape victims attended a workshop recently.” He held up another finger. “So we have opportunity and proximity.”

  “Do we have location?” Quince asked.

  “Not yet. I’ve got a patrol officer watching his apartment, and I have the address of his brother’s house in Creswell. Any ideas?”

  “Have you talked to his neighbors and coworkers?” Evans leaned forward, intently chewing gum. It was a new, somewhat irritating habit. Jackson thought she might be trying to lose weight.

  “We’ve questioned his neighbors, but not his coworkers. The coworkers are a good idea and you can follow up on it. Until recently, he worked the swing shift at the Goodwill donation center on Seneca, so they should all be there now.”

  Quince asked, “Have you put out a statewide bulletin?”

  “Yes. With descriptions of him and his dark blue cargo van.” Jackson sat back down, then pulled the blond-girl photos out of his evidence bag and handed them to Quince. “We found these photos in Bodehammer’s apartment. Check them against missing person files. We need to identify these girls, even if that means running their pictures in the paper tomorrow.” Jackson reached over and gestured that he wanted to see the photos again. Jamie’s image was still on top. As he passed them back to Quince, Jackson said, “Here’s an odd development. The young woman in that first photo is Jamie Conner, best friend and/or lover—depending on who’s talking—of Raina Hughes, the third victim.”

  “That is odd,” Evans commented. “Are there photos of Amy Hastings or Keesha Williams?”

  “Not that I found.”

  The group was silent for a moment as they worked through the possibilities.

  “You said Raina hadn’t been confirmed as one of the stepmother’s poetry students,” Evans said finally. “Maybe Bodehammer knows Jamie and targeted Raina because of her association with Jamie.”

  “Or maybe Bodehammer was stalking Jamie,” Jackson offered. “Jamie Conner’s father is Ted Conner, Bodehammer’s parole officer. As far as we know, no one has heard from Jamie Conner since yesterday.”

  “Shit.” It was Schak’s first contribution to the meeting.

  “Is Ted Conner up to speed on all this?” Evans asked.

  “He knows Bodehammer is a suspect and that we found Jamie’s picture in Bodehammer’s apartment. He doesn’t know about the poetry workshop connection.”

  “Did Jamie take a poetry class?” Evans was still asking great questions.

  Jackson was embarrassed that he had failed to ask. “I don’t know. Will you call Michelle Peterson and find out?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Schak asked.

  “Check out a house in west Eugene. It belongs to Bodehammer’s father, who died a few months back. His ex-wife says it’s locked and uninhabitable, but it’s worth checking.” Jackson found the address in his notes, recopied it on a separate page, and handed the paper to Schak.

  His cell phone rang and McCray’s name came up on the screen. “Are you coming in, McCray?”

  “If I do, I’ll miss Judge Cranston. I’m sitting in the lobby of the Valley River Inn waiting for him to finish dinner. As soon as I told him Bodehammer had a criminal record, he said he’d sign the body standard subpoena. But he wanted to finish eating first.”

  “So wait. After you get it, come into the department and help Quince track down the names of the women in the photos we found.” Jackson closed the phone and looked up at his team.

  “What’s the theory on Jamie’s status?” Quince asked the question no one else wanted to bring up.

  Jackson was blunt. “She’s either fine and will turn up any moment, or she’s already been raped and bludgeoned to death.” Jackson stood, ready to move. “Call me if you come up with anything or need any more manpower. We need to find Ryan Bodehammer now, before he hurts anyone else.”

  Schak headed toward the Bodehammer house on Pondview Street. He wasn’t optimistic about finding the suspect there, but it was better than following Butch Seltzer around. He’d been on the outside edge of this investigation from the beginning. That’s the way it played out som
etimes. Every lead had to be investigated.

  The address was in the Barger neighborhood in west Eugene, on the other side of the industrial area. Not in the massive new development with two-story homes on postage-stamp lots, but on the north side among the older single-story homes with backyards and breathing room…and low-brow renters.

  David Bodehammer’s small house was on a dead-end just off of Dakota. Huge sequoias lined the front yard, casting a wall of privacy on the residence. In the dying daylight, Schak could see the gravel driveway was overgrown with weeds, the windows were covered with dirt, and no light escaped the house. No one had come or gone from this driveway in many months. Bodehammer’s van was certainly not parked on the gravel or in the single-car garage that had been boarded shut with long 2x4s. Schak started to drive on by, then decided to take five minutes and be more thorough. He parked on the street and walked up to the front door, a white solid surface that didn’t allow him to see in. He knocked hard and waited. No response. He turned the knob but it was locked. A deadbolt above the doorknob was also locked. Schak stepped off the cement step and onto the dirt patch that had once been lawn. A heavy curtain covered the front window, not even leaving a tiny crack to peek through. Another window in the front, probably a bedroom, was also draped and impossible to penetrate. Schak thought that was odd. Were the curtains pinned closed? That would be a sign of something to hide.