“Oh shit.” Grady grabbed the door handle and pushed out of the car. Jackson, a step behind, paralleled his move. Free of the car, Grady ran for the railroad tracks. Jackson raced after him, the Sig Sauer jamming into the ribs under his arm. Mud sucked at his shoes, and his heart pounded heavily. Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to chase a suspect.
It was a short chase. Grady lost his footing on the muddy railroad embankment and went down. Jackson slid into him and landed on Grady’s stomach with both knees. Grady was cuffed before he could get his feet under him.
The Hyster driver watched from his perch on the big yellow machine as Jackson led Grady to the Impala.
“Don’t do this to me,” Grady pleaded again.
Chapter 8
Wednesday, October 20, 10:15 a.m.
Ruth was carefully packing potassium nitrate into a four-inch metal cylinder when the doorbell rang. It startled her so badly she almost dropped the device. She tried to ignore the intrusion, but whoever it was rang several more times. Then she remembered the radio was on in the living room and realized her visitor must feel certain she was home. She set the would-be pipe bomb down on the laundry table, stepped out into the hall, and closed the laundry room door. She hurried into the kitchen and peeked out the corner window. The car in the driveway was a dark blue sedan she didn’t recognize. Probably a salesman who was ignoring her No Solicitors sign. It was best to answer the door and send him on his way.
Ruth yanked off her apron—which reeked of chemicals—stuffed it under the kitchen sink, and hurried across the dining room and into the foyer. She reached over and touched the Bible on the credenza and took a moment to compose herself. Then she opened the door a few inches. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
The bulky man in the ill-fitting suit held up a badge and said, “I’m Officer Schakowski of the Eugene Police. Can I come in?”
Ruth almost had a heart attack. They knew! But how?
“What’s this about?” Ruth asked, praying to sound casual.
“I’m investigating the death of Jessie Davenport. I understand you and your daughter were close to her.”
Jessie was dead? How? When? Ruth was stunned. Then relief washed over her. The cop was not here about the bomb at the clinic. Her brain scrambled to find the right words. “How in the Lord’s name did it happen?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Let’s sit out on the deck.” Ruth stepped outside, closed the door behind her, and led him over to the Adirondack chairs. The bright sun failed to warm the morning air, and Ruth wished she had a sweater. She noticed the cop giving her a thorough appraisal. What did he see, she wondered? A petite, Christian woman in her mid-forties who dressed nicely even at home by herself? Or did he see a nervous Nellie who did not want him in her home for some suspicious reason? Ruth perched on the front edge of a chair and prayed it was the former. She had to get this over quickly, so she could finish her task and put away her materials before picking the kids up from school. Silently, she asked God to keep her secrets safe.
There was still much work to do.
“When was the last time you saw Jessie?” The detective had a notepad in hand.
“Last Sunday at church.” Unless that was Jessie at the clinic yesterday. “Why are you questioning me?”
“Her mother said she spent a lot of time here.” He made it sound like a question.
“She had dinner with us every once in a while.”
“Do you know why anyone would want to harm her?”
“Was she murdered?”
“Yes. You haven’t seen it on the news?”
“We try not to watch that liberal propaganda.” Ruth tried to keep her face from telegraphing her disgust.
“Back to my question,” the detective said with a little impatience. “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to harm Jessie?”
“Of course not. Jessie was a sweet girl.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She was friends with other Christian boys in the Teen Talk club, but they’re all too young to date.”
“Did she know anyone who lived in the Regency or Oakwood Apartments between Hilyard and Patterson?”
Ruth shrugged. “I don’t know. She was a good Christian girl. If someone killed her, it had to be some psychopath. I told Judy not to let her dress that way.”
The detective jotted something down. “How did she dress?”
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” Ruth backtracked. “She wasn’t trashy like some girls, but her skirts were a little short, and she wore too much makeup for a thirteen-year-old.”
“What hobbies or activities did she have?”
“I really can’t help you. Just because she went to our church doesn’t mean I knew her that well.” Ruth stood up. Jessie’s death was a shame, but she had nothing else to say, and she really needed to get the cop out of there. She would make a point to counsel and pray with Judy Davenport later this week.
“What church is that?”
“The First Bible Baptist.”
The detective jotted it down. “Is your daughter Rachel here?”
“She’s in school, but I’m sure there’s nothing she can tell you either.”
The detective handed her a card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us find Jessie’s killer.”
When he was gone, Ruth thanked God for getting her through the ordeal. It was one more sign that she was doing the right thing and that God would protect her.
She returned to the laundry room and went back to work on the device. Her training as a chemist had been largely wasted in the ShopKo pharmacy where she’d worked before marrying Sam. Filling pill bottles had been tedious, mindless work. Then one day at a CCA meeting in Portland, she’d mentioned her chemistry degree to Josiah Stahl, a soft-spoken man from the Beaverton chapter. His eyes had lit up, and he’d leaned in and asked her what she thought about Eric Rudolph. Ruth had replied, “He should have stuck to abortion clinics.”
After that Josiah had invited her to join him in a private Bible study. He had quoted her many moving passages, such as Matthew Chapter 18, in which Jesus said: “See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look upon the face of my heavenly Father.”
During the prayer session that followed, God revealed to Ruth why she’d spent all that time studying chemistry. With a little coaching from Josiah, she developed the skills to make bombs. Tactical intimidation bombs that would help close the abortion clinics that allowed young women to evade the consequences of their sins.
Ruth smiled to herself. Actually, anyone could make an explosive device. It was not complicated. But a little knowledge of chemistry could keep you from blowing your fingers off. Speaking of which, she was rushing this too much, trying to make up for the lost time spent with the detective.
Ruth stepped back from her worktable and centered herself. She had to finish this today, but every move had to be deliberate. A cleansing breath, followed by a brief prayer. Please Lord, if this mission is your will, keep me safe. Ruth had decided that morning to set off another bomb at the clinic right away. Then they would have to take her seriously.
If she skipped lunch, she would still have time to complete the device, put all her materials away, shower and change her clothes. Then she would gather up Caleb’s baseball gear so she could pick him up and take him straight from school to baseball practice. While he was out in left field, she would visit Judy Davenport and counsel her about spending more time on CCA’s missions. Maybe Jessie’s death would be the wake-up call that would get Judy right with God again.
Wednesday, October 20, 3:35 p.m.
Kera had another opportunity to peruse the files late in the afternoon when one of her scheduled appointments didn’t show. She checked the clinic lobby and found it empty. No surprise. The extensive media coverag
e of the bomb incident would probably keep some clients away for at least a few days. And anyone who hadn’t seen the news might still be intimidated by the boarded up front window and yellow crime-scene tape roping off a big chunk of the landscaping. Kera didn’t have much confidence the police would catch the bomber. A different detective, Michael Quince, had come by the clinic this morning and started over with the questions. That was not a good sign. He had also said the FBI would soon take over the case. Another bad sign. Federal investigators were notoriously poor communicators.
Meanwhile, the clinic’s lab assistant who had called in sick yesterday had called in and quit this morning. And Bria, another nurse, had called in with a family emergency. Kera wondered if she would ever see her again. Now the lobby, which had seemed business-as-usual that morning, was empty of clients.
Kera pushed those thoughts aside and dove into the files. Investigating the “sex club”—as she had come to think of it—would help keep her mind busy, giving her less time to worry. She started at the end of the C section where she had left off this morning and began thumbing through charts. Patients’ birthdates were listed on the file tab, so it was easy to skip everybody older than sixteen.
In a short while, she found a second client who matched the profile. Rachel Greiner, also a student at Kincaid, had made an unscheduled visit to the clinic on July 7 and asked for emergency contraception. Andrea, who was a nurse as well as the clinic manager, had discussed several birth control options with Rachel, but the girl had declined everything but some condoms to take with her. Andrea’s notes indicated that Rachel believed birth control pills were an abortifacient.
Kera shook her head. The notion that hormonal contraception could keep a newly formed oocyte from adhering to the uterine wall had no scientific basis. The pharmaceutical company that had first marketed “the pill” in the fifties had made the claim—without any scientific data—because they thought it would help sell the product. Now a growing number of anti-abortion activists, including some doctors, believed it to be factual. Marketing was the glue that held myths together.
Kera jotted Rachel’s information on her notepad and hoped the girl would come back in for condoms. So far, she had not.
The next hit came quickly: Katie Jackson had listed her age as fifteen, but the client also noted her school as Kincaid. Unless the girl had flunked a few grades, she was probably fourteen or under. Her last visit had been more than six months ago in late February, when she’d left with condoms and a three-month supply of pills. Katie had not been back.
“Can I get in there?” Julie was suddenly at her side.
“Of course.” Kera stepped back and let her co-worker pull a chart.
“Doing your own file moving?” Julie asked. The dark circles under her eyes seemed more prominent today.
“That’s how slow it is. Do you think it’ll be like this all week?”
“We could never get that lucky.” Julie closed the drawer. “That’s it for me. Don’t work too late.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Julie moved off and Kera continued her search. Because she wasn’t sure yet what she would do with her findings, she didn’t feel ready to share her investigation with her co-workers.
The clinic was nearly silent, the only sounds the hum of computers and an occasional clunk of a drawer being closed. Most of the staff had gone home, and for the next hour, Kera didn’t hear anyone announce themselves in the foyer. She could feel the daylight fading and her hunger growing, but she pushed on, eager to get through the files.
Eventually she found two partial matches in the M section. Savannah Montgomery, fourteen, had left the school line blank. And Greg Miller had listed his age as thirteen but his school as Spencer High School, which did not match up—unless he attended the middle school next door. Greg had been treated for genital warts six weeks ago.
Kera checked her watch. It was 6:15 and her shift was over, but the clinic would be open until 8 p.m. She decided to take a quick dinner break, then come back and finish searching the files.
Wednesday, October 20, 4:57 p.m.
Evans and McCray were already in the room, writing lists of suspects on the board when Jackson arrived.
“Nice penmanship, Evans. On the other hand, McCray, you write like a cranked-up second grader.”
McCray had the good humor to laugh, despite the fact that he’d been on the job for nearly thirty-six hours with only a few winks of sleep. They all had. Jackson was looking forward to dinner with his daughter and maybe a short nap too. Having a suspect in custody made him feel like he could afford to take a short break. The team needed to hear about Grady, but not until he’d heard their reports first. He didn’t want anyone censoring their findings. Everyone connected to the case was still a suspect.
“Are these the tenant lists?
McCray nodded. “I’ve contacted everyone at the Regency Apartments at least once, most of them twice. Only one reacted to Jessie’s photo. Bettina Rajnek in unit twelve. She saw Jessie crossing the basketball court once recently.”
“When?”
“A week or so ago. But she’s not certain.”
“Jessie must know someone in the apartments.” Jackson brightened a little. “Anybody you haven’t shown the photo to?”
“These two.” McCray underlined two names, then let go of the marker and slipped into a chair. The relief was obvious on the older man’s face. Jackson felt guilty about calling him out on this case. It could go on like this for days, maybe a week.
“Hey, what did I miss?” Schakowski hustled in carrying a thermos and wearing a red stain on his shirt.
“Your face?” Evans laughed at her own joke.
Schak looked down and cursed.
Jackson brought the focus back to Jessie. “One of the tenants thinks she might have seen Jessie outside the apartments a couple weeks ago.”
“So what’s the theory?”
“We’re not there yet.” Jackson turned to Evans, who was in a chair now, with her long legs stretched out. “What about your renters?”
“No one admitted recognizing the photo. But I swear the guy in unit three reacted like he did, then denied it. That’s Louis Frank, by the way, with the theft and drug record.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“I think he’s seen the girl around but doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself. Maybe for good reason.”
“Let’s bring him in.”
Jackson had lost all patience with cagey ex-cons.
“I’d like a chance to talk to his girlfriend first, without him around.” Evans sat up and looked at her notes.
“Okay. What else?”
“I’ve interviewed almost everyone at the complex twice now. But there are still two units where no one has been home either time I’ve been there.” She pointed at the names on the board underlined in yellow: Joseph Orte and Mariska Harrison.
“Have you asked the manager about them?”
“He wasn’t home either.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ray Bondioli. He’s in unit two. I’ll go back in an hour or so and try again.”
“I’ll go,” Jackson offered, jotting the name down. “I want you to interview Mrs. Davenport instead. I’m hoping you’ll get more out of her than I did.”
“What’s she like?” Evans flipped her notepad to a fresh page.
“Religious. Defensive about her parenting. Maybe bitter and lonely too. Her husband left about six months ago. By the way, let’s find out where he is. And if Jessie had any contact with him.” Jackson wrote down the Davenport address and handed it to Evans.
“Schak, what have you got to report?”
“Ruth Greiner, friend of the Davenports, seems a little squirrelly.” He tapped his note pad with a pen. “First, she wouldn’t let me into her house. We talked outside on the deck. Then she couldn’t get it over fast enough. But whatever her problem is, it doesn’t seem to be connected to Jessie. Greiner seemed genuinely
surprised to learn of the girl’s death.”
“Maybe she just didn’t want you to see her dirty house,” Evans said.
“I saw her talking to herself,” Schak said. “Not out loud. She was just moving her lips.”
Jackson thought about Judy Davenport’s reaction to Jessie’s death. “Was Greiner praying?”
Schak touched his forehead. “Of course. I should have realized that. She mentioned that they all went to the same church.”
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Jackson looked at Evans. “I’d like you to talk to Greg Miller and Adam Walsh next. I missed them when I was at the school.” To Schak, he said, “Follow up on the legitimate public call-in leads. Casaway has been screening them for us.”
He addressed the group. “Casaway also gave me a lead from the sex offender database. I picked him up this afternoon. Oscar Grady has a history of statutory rape. The girl was fifteen. I’m holding him until I get a warrant for a DNA swab, but I’ll have to release him after that if we don’t come up with something else.”
He looked at McCray. “Take his life apart. Talk to everyone Grady associates with. Find something on this guy.”
Jackson stood. “Meanwhile, the rest of us keep looking. Church seems to be the common denominator in this social circle. Jessie and her friends met on Tuesdays after school for a Bible study called Teen Talk. And sometimes Jessie left early. If someone saw her at the apartments, then we have to assume the girl started using her free time to do something more exciting than Bible study.”
Chapter 9
Wednesday, October 20, 6:33 p.m.
Jackson’s bungalow on the corner of 25th and Harris was dwarfed by giant oak and birch trees that had already begun to shed their leaves. As he hurried up the walk, he wondered how long he could let the yard go before he absolutely had to get out the rake. So far, October had been dry and warm, so the leaves hadn’t started to decay and stink yet.
A memory from when he was ten years old bubbled. He and his older brother Derrick had a yard care service—right here in this neighborhood—that included mowing, weeding, and raking. Once, being stupid kids, they had dumped leaves in the trash can of the crazy old woman next door, and she’d called the police. The sight of a cop standing in his living room wanting to talk to him had made Jackson’s knees tremble. But the officer had been kind and had even complimented him and Derrick for having their own business. Jackson’s fear quickly turned to awe. He was captivated by the crisp uniform, the gun, the authority—and the compassion. At that moment, he had decided to become a cop. And never wavered from that dream.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club Page 7