“I ruled it a homicide,” she said, handing him the paperwork. It was only the second time Jackson had ever seen her without a surgical-style hair covering, and it surprised him to see that she had gone completely gray. Jackson reflexively touched his own hair, which had begun to sprout some silver at the temples. His life was flying by and there was so much he hadn’t done yet.
“I found cotton fibers in her lungs, which could indicate a struggle to breathe.”
“Anything special about the fabric?”
“Not really. Six-hundred-count baby blue cotton sheets, available in every Bed, Bath and Beyond.”
“I brought in some sheets to compare the fibers to.”
“You have a suspect.” She looked pleased.
“Circumstantial only. I still need a physical connection.”
“Then you’re not going to like this.” Ainsworth scowled behind her big glasses. “The pubic hair DNA does not match the semen deposit.”
Jackson processed the information. “You’re saying she had sex with two unknown and different men before she died?”
Ainsworth gave him a small smile. “Although the semen deposit was fresh, the hair could have been there for a day or so.”
The information was a curve ball—Jessie was having sex with more than one partner. Fieldstone and Grady? Had Jessie been obsessed with older men? The mayor was still his prime suspect, because, so far, McCray had not established a physical link between Grady and Jessie. But a second lover, no matter who, would make it harder to convict Fieldstone for the killing.
“There’s more.”
“Yes?”
“She had hydrocodone in her bloodstream. It’s a prescription pain reliever. An opioid that’s often used recreationally.”
Jackson sensed that Jessie’s pain had been emotional. “What else?” He prepared himself for more bad news.
“She was pregnant.”
Chapter 18
It shouldn’t have stunned him, but it did. He still thought of Jessie as a kid. “How far along?”
“Four to six weeks. She probably didn’t know.”
“Could she have known?”
Ainsworth shrugged. “It’s possible. But a lot of girls that young don’t have regular periods or don’t keep track of their periods, so they don’t even suspect they’re pregnant until they start to show or their breasts start to swell.”
“If she knew and she told him, it would be a motive for killing her.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Jackson leaned back in his chair and let it soak in. The hodgepodge of evidence couldn’t be sorted out until he had Grady’s DNA results and a DNA sample from the mayor. But this report didn’t give him anything new that he could take to Cranston that would convince the judge to sign a warrant demanding that the mayor submit to a DNA swab. Unless one of the other task force members came up with something today from their interviews with Fieldstone’s family, friends, and neighbors.
“I brought in panties and lip gloss today, both found in the suspect’s apartment. How soon can I get a DNA comparison to the victim?”
“Three days is a best-case scenario. We had to cut two lab positions this spring when the bond measure failed.” Ainsworth sounded weary. Jackson sympathized, yet he had more evidence that needed immediate attention.
“I brought in some bed sheets too. If they match the fibers found in Jessie’s nose and lungs, I should be able to get a search warrant for a DNA sample from the suspect. Once we have that, we’ll have a standard to compare the hair and semen to.” It was a lot of tenuous connections, but it was all he had. “Any chance of getting the sheets processed today?”
“We’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”
“Thanks.”
Friday, October 22, 12:05 p.m.
On her lunch break, Kera walked around the block—soaking up some weak autumn sun—and checked her cell phone messages. First, her sister Janine asked her to come to Bend for the weekend, which she was seriously considering. She could use an out-of-town break. It had been an intense week.
The next message was from Detective Jackson, asking to meet with her. And buy her dinner. Kera’s stomach fluttered with a twinge of excitement. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and laughed at herself. How lonely she must be, to look forward to meeting with a police officer who was conducting an investigation. Kera vowed to get out more often with her friends.
She called the number Jackson had given and left a message. “I’m free to meet with you this evening, but I’m not sure that I have any more information to share. Dinner sounds good, but there’s no reason for you to buy. Either way, I’ll be home by six.”
Did that sound casual? She hoped so.
Kera arrived home an hour early. Clients were starting to come back into the clinic, but it still wasn’t as busy as usual. And Sheila was cutting staff hours to help pay for the security she’d hired. Kera parked her Saturn, then walked back out to her mailbox on the street. She hadn’t checked it in days, and the metal box was stuffed to capacity.
Kera hauled the pile into the house and dumped it on the kitchen table. A pale pink envelope caught her attention. Curious, she scooped it up and looked for the sender’s name. In the return address corner, the initials NC were scrawled in fat cursive letters with an exaggerated flourish. The recipient line contained only her first name, Kera, also done in cursive, followed by her address in small block print. Overall, the effect seemed childlike.
Kera tore the envelope open and extracted a matching pink card with a simple “Thank You” printed on the front. A lovely fruit scent wafted from the card. Instinctively, she lifted it closer to her nose and sniffed. It was a melon and cucumber blend, like the body wash she used.
Inside, the message was handwritten in the same small block lettering, except for the signature, which repeated the cursive flourish:
Kera,
Thanks for spending time with me. It means a lot to me.
NC
It had to be Nicole, she thought. What a sweet and surprising gesture. Most adults never bothered with thank-you cards, and it never occurred to Kera that a teenager would. In fact, it struck her as a little peculiar that Nicole had penned and mailed the note so quickly. Kera had only talked with her yesterday.
She set the envelope down, grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper, then sorted through the rest of the mail. A plain white envelope caught her eye. This one contained no return name or address, only a sticker in one corner that said God is Love. This will be amusing, Kera thought, running the letter opener along the seal. Some church group either wanted her money or her soul.
Dear Sinner,
Planned Parenthood is the work of the devil and you are his pawn. You must repent your sins and stop murdering unborn babies. It is the worst transgression against God. Teaching God’s children to fornicate freely is the second worst transgression. You must stop or God will punish you. This is a promise. And God does not break His promises.
— God’s Messenger
Kera dropped the letter and jumped up from the table. The anti-abortion bomber–crackpot was targeting her personally. Her heart pounded wildly, and Kera began to pace. The clinic had received piles of hate mail over the years, but it had never come to her home before. If the bomber knew her address, then he knew where she lived. A nerve in the pocket of her thumb began to twitch, and Kera put her soda back into the refrigerator. She had to stop drinking so much caffeine. She went back to the table and stared at the letter.
She started to pick up the envelope to examine it more thoroughly, then thought better of it. If it had fingerprints, she didn’t want to ruin them. She retrieved some latex gloves from the bathroom and slid them on, something she did twenty times a day in the clinic, then carefully picked up the envelope again. She started to feel a little lightheaded.
The postage mark was local. The stamp sported the popular blue-heron-in-flight image. Her full name and address had been printed from a word processing progr
am. It looked like Times New Roman or Minion font, about twelve point. It matched the font in the letter. Very standard stuff, available on any computer.
Out of curiosity, Kera picked up the pink envelope. The stamp was also from the Blue Heron series. But there was no postage mark, no sign that it had been processed through the US postal system. That was very odd, indeed. Nicole—or someone—had put it directly into her mailbox. How and why would Nicole learn her home address?
Kera told herself that it was coincidence that the two letters had the same stamp. It was a popular stamp choice in Oregon. She had a book of Blues in her desk drawer. If the same person had sent both, why had one been mailed and one delivered directly?
Kera’s chest tightened, and she fought to take a deep breath. Don’t panic, she told herself. They’re just letters. They can’t hurt you. But her heart knew better. In the recent past, letters had caused her a lot of pain. Kera grabbed her cell phone and pressed redial. Jackson’s voicemail picked up.
“It’s Kera again. I received some letters in the mail today that I think you should see.” Her chest began to burn. Was she having a heart attack? “Or maybe I should call Detective Quince…”
All of sudden, Kera felt as if the oxygen had been sucked out of her body. She tried to speak, but could only make shallow grunting noises. The room began to spin, and she grabbed for a kitchen chair.
Chapter 19
Friday, October 22, 5:15 p.m.
Jackson shut his phone off while he met with Sergeant Lammers. She despised interruptions and had once tossed Casaway’s cell phone out the window after the detective had taken one too many calls in the confinement of the car they were riding in.
A thirty-year police veteran, Lammers had no patience for small talk either.
“You called the meeting, Jackson,” she said, seconds after he stepped into her office. “It’s your show.” She was six feet of fleshy muscle and political power, and even sitting down, she could be intimidating.
“I thought you should know that our top suspect in the death of Jessie Davenport, you know, the girl found in the dumpster…”
“I know who she is.”
…is Mayor Fieldstone.”
“No.” Her poker face went slack. “Tell me it’s circumstantial.”
“So far, it is. He rents a secret apartment five hundred feet from where the body was found. He talked on the phone to Jessie seven times in the last month. And another tenant saw the girl outside his unit.”
“So they know each other.” No high-ranking city employee wanted to jump to conclusions about the mayor.
“We searched his apartment yesterday and collected fiber evidence and some female panties. I hope to get a warrant for a DNA sample soon.”
“You should have informed me sooner.”
“I’ve been driving back and forth to Portland, taking evidence to the lab.” Jackson knew he was late with this conversation, but he’d been so damn busy.
“Who else have you looked at?” Lammers was obviously worried about a lawsuit. Police departments in Oregon had been sued recently for not investigating enough suspects.
“We’re investigating a sex offender named Oscar Grady. He lives about four blocks from where the body was found and has a penchant for young girls. The state lab is comparing his DNA to the trace evidence now. I should have results soon.”
“Don’t move on the mayor until you get Grady’s labs. If there’s no match with Grady, then get a warrant to swab Fieldstone.” She leaned back with her arms folded across her chest. “Fieldstone is very well liked by a lot of powerful Republicans who want to see him elected to the Senate. That group includes the chief of police. So tread carefully.”
“I will.”
On the way back to his desk, Jackson turned his phone on and checked his messages. He had missed a return call from Katie, asking if she could stay over at Emily’s and a call from Kera agreeing to meet him for dinner. He checked his watch: 5:27. According to her message, Kera wouldn’t be home for another half an hour.
He played his last message. It was Kera again, and she sounded upset about some letters she’d received. Then suddenly her voice cut off, and he thought he heard some choking sounds. Then the recording stopped.
Jackson felt his pulse quicken. Was she in trouble? His gut instinct said yes, but his intellect told him he was overreacting. Her phone call had simply been interrupted by something or someone. Cell phones were notorious for cutting out.
He dialed her number, but she didn’t answer. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. She could be in the shower. Or whatever. He plugged her phone number into LEDS, noted her address, then shut his computer off. He had planned to meet her soon anyway, so he might as well drive over there and check.
Before he reached his car on the lower level, Jackson ran into Schak coming up the stairs.
“Did something break for us?” he asked. “You’re moving like a man with a mission.”
“I’m late for a meeting.” Jackson stopped mid-step. “Did you get anything interesting on Fieldstone today?”
Schak shook his head. “Everybody loves the guy. Including his good-looking wife. When are we scheduled to meet again?”
“Not until Monday, unless you hear from me sooner. I’ve gotta run.”
Waiting for a left turn light at 18th and Chambers, he called Kera’s cell phone again. Still no answer. Jackson made the turn and headed up the hill. It was Friday at 5:40, and the traffic was thick and slow. Jackson felt his blood pressure rise. He was tempted to use his siren. He unbuttoned his jacket and took off his seat belt instead.
By the time he reached Kera’s place at the top of McLean, he could smell his own sweat. Jackson parked next to her Saturn in the driveway and rushed to the front door. He rang the bell, counted to five, and followed with a loud knock. No response.
He tried the doorknob, which turned easily. Her car was in the driveway and her front door was unlocked, so he figured she had to be home. Jackson pushed the door open and called out, “Kera. Are you here?”
No answer. His heart thumped against his chest. Had something happened to her?
Jackson drew his Sig Sauer and pushed inside. The living room was empty. He moved cautiously through the dining room into the kitchen. Kera was on the floor behind a chair. Her eyes were open, but vacant, and her hands clutched at her chest.
He holstered his weapon and reached for his cell phone, using speed dial to call the emergency dispatch center on the other end of Chambers. “This is Detective Jackson. I need an ambulance at 3245 McLean. The victim is conscious but seriously ill. Hold on for a moment.”
Jackson knelt down on the floor. “Kera, can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her face was turning a bluish color.
“What happened? Are you injured?”
“My lungs. The letters.” She grimaced with the pain of speaking.
He spoke to the dispatcher again. “This is a possible poisoning. Have the ambulance meet me in the Bi-Mart parking lot at 18th and Chambers.”
Jackson jumped up and scanned the table. White latex gloves lay next to a couple of envelopes, one business-sized and white, the other square and pink.
He started yanking open kitchen drawers. “Do you have ziplock bags?”
She tried to speak, but her voice erupted in violent coughing.
Jackson located a couple of freezer bags in a drawer near the refrigerator, then quickly pulled on the too-small latex gloves. He didn’t have time to go out to his car for his own. He shoved each letter into a separate plastic bag, then crammed the evidence into his jacket pockets. The hospital would need to know what poisoning they were dealing with.
Jackson lifted Kera off the floor, but struggled to keep her up. She was tall and muscular and probably weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.
“I can walk if you help me,” she whispered against his neck.
He lowered her feet to the ground, and moved his arm around her wais
t.
Half dragging, half carrying her, Jackson maneuvered Kera out of the house and down the walkway. Midpoint in the driveway, she had another coughing fit and her knees buckled. Jackson scooped her up and did a staggered run to his Impala. He folded Kera into the back seat, and she promptly fell over on her side.
Jackson climbed in the driver’s side, fired up the engine and raced down the hill toward town. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter one of the deer that were famous for darting out of the trees at dusk on Chambers. He was still breathing hard when he hit his first stoplight at 24th. He cursed the traffic for being there and himself for being so out of shape. Jackson turned on his siren, something he almost never had cause for, and cleared the intersection.
As he pulled into the Bi-Mart parking lot, he heard Kera vomiting in the back seat. The sour-acid stench made his stomach heave. Jackson bounded out of the car and opened the back door. Grabbing Kera around her knees, he dragged her from the car and eased her onto the ground, rolling her up on her side in case she vomited again. Her breath was shallow and ragged, and there was no pink left in her face. “Hang in there, Kera. Help is coming.”
He racked his brain to remember his first aid training. But for poisoning, as long as she was breathing, there wasn’t much he could do. The paramedics would soon give her oxygen, then the emergency room doctors would probably give her charcoal to absorb whatever was in her system. No, that was for ingested substances. If it came from the envelopes, the poison was probably in a powder form and she had inhaled it. He had no idea how to help her.
He reached for his pockets to make sure the envelopes were still there.
What had they used? Anthrax? Man, he hoped not. The hospital lab would test the envelopes. If they discovered which agent she had been attacked with soon enough, they could save her. Jackson squatted next to Kera and stroked her hair. Then he closed his eyes and pleaded with God to save her.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club Page 15