“Do you know where you are, Kera?”
She became aware of tubes in her nostrils. “Why am I in the hospital?”
“You were very sick for a while, but you’re going to be okay. We’re giving you oxygen.”
“What happened?” Pain seared her throat as she spoke. Kera remembered sitting at her kitchen table and coughing violently.
“You inhaled ricin powder. It looks like someone deliberately poisoned you. I’m Sheri, by the way.” The nurse smiled brightly, revealing a mouthful of beautiful white teeth.
Oh yeah. The letter from the crackpot. Kera remembered opening her mail, and she vaguely recalled seeing Jackson in her kitchen. After that, it was a blur of motion and sickness.
Kera pushed herself into an upright position, making herself a little dizzy. “I have to warn the other staff members.”
The nurse looked startled. “You should lie back down.”
“This is important.”
“I’m sure the police are taking care of it. In fact, the police are out there now, wanting to speak to you. I told them you weren’t ready.”
Was it Jackson? “I’ll see him. In fact, would you please put my bed into a sitting position and remove the oxygen tube?”
“I’ll sit you up, but I’m sure the doctor will want the tube to stay.”
As Sheri elevated her bed, Kera pulled off the tape holding the tiny tube in place.
“Please don’t do that,” Sheri protested, but she made no move to stop her.
“I’ll be fine,” Kera said, relieved to have the tube out. “The more I move around, the faster I’ll get better. Trust me. I’m a nurse.”
Sheri let out a little snort. “Only doctors make worse patients.” She appraised Kera for a moment, then said, “I’ll go get your visitors.”
It wasn’t Jackson. Michael Quince, the boyish looking detective who had taken over the bomb investigation, came in followed by another man in a dark suit. An older man with thick glasses and deep furrows around his eyes. They stood at the end of her bed, each with a notebook in hand.
“Hi Kera,” Quince said. “This is Agent Daren Fouts. He’s with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you okay to answer some questions?”
She wanted information first. “Were any of the other staff members poisoned? Have you warned them?” Her voice was hoarse and weak, and she didn’t sound like herself.
The detective smiled, making himself look about twelve. Especially compared with the somber Agent Fouts.
“The rest of the staff is fine,” he reported. “Two others received a threatening letter, but no poison. The ricin you inhaled came from the pink thank-you card signed NC. Do you know who that is?”
Kera hesitated. She didn’t believe Nicole had done this. “Yesterday, I talked with Nicole Clarke, a young girl at Kincaid Middle School. But I don’t believe she would poison me.”
“Why not?” Fouts spoke up.
“She has no motive. She barely knows me.”
They both jotted something down in their little black notebooks.
“What did you talk about?” Quince asked.
“It was personal. I can’t tell you.”
Quince frowned. “How can we rule her out as a suspect if we don’t know what her relationship is to you?”
“We don’t really have a relationship. I happened to be at Kincaid school yesterday. Or the day before.” Kera was suddenly confused. “What day and time is it?”
“It’s around 7 a.m., Saturday morning. Please continue.” Quince moved in closer, so he could hear her better. Fouts stayed put.
“I was at the school on Thursday. Nicole approached me and asked if we could talk.” Kera’s voice faded out, sounding like a hoarse whisper. “We went to my car and chatted for about ten minutes about personal stuff. That’s it.”
“Did anyone see you talking to her?”
“I don’t know. It’s certainly possible.”
“Why would someone poison you and not the other clinic workers?” Fouts suddenly took the lead.
“I don’t know.” Kera’s head hurt and she wanted them to go away.
“Do you perform abortions?” Fouts asked.
“No. They’re done by a doctor, who provides the service on a contract basis. Sometimes I assist, though.”
Agent Fouts scratched his jaw. “Someone tried to kill you. Are you sure you don’t want to tell us what you and Nicole Clarke talked about?”
Had someone meant to kill her? Kera hadn’t really considered the idea that she could have died. “You’ll have to ask Nicole.”
“I will. I suspect she knows more about this than you think she does.”
“I doubt it.” Kera was tired of the questions and didn’t believe there was anything she could say that would help them. “I need to rest, please.”
“I hope you get well soon,” Quince gave her another smile on his way out.
After they were gone, Kera tried to remember what she knew about ricin poisoning. It seemed that the toxin shut down the production of some type of protein on a cellular level, causing cells to die. The only recourse was to flush it from the system. Ingesting ricin was much worse than inhaling it though, because eating it damaged the digestive system. People who recovered from ingested ricin poisoning often had bowel trouble for the rest of their lives. Kera was grateful she wouldn’t face that. Her lungs might never be good enough to run a marathon, but she would recover.
Suddenly, she felt dizzy and weak. Kera put her bed back down to rest for a while. Was she marked for execution now? Abortion clinic staff members in other states wore bulletproof vests every time they left the house—and carried concealed weapons. Could she live like that or should she give up her job? Either choice seemed unacceptable.
Saturday, October 23, 6:35 a.m.
Ruth rolled out of bed, put on a pot of coffee, and while it brewed, called Northwest McKenzie Hospital.
“My sister, Kera Kollmorgan, was brought into the hospital last night. How is she doing?”
While the receptionist transferred her to a nurse, Ruth pulled out flour and sugar from the cupboard. Her family was attending a prayer breakfast this morning, and she had signed up to bring the pancake batter. In a minute, a nurse came on and informed her that Kollmorgan had been moved out of intensive care and was recovering in room 213.
So the abortionist-whore had survived. Ruth had not necessarily intended for her to die, but she had accepted that it might happen. God must have His reasons, she thought.
She thought about the bomb in the back of the laundry room closet. She was anxious to place it inside the clinic. But they had a security guard now, so she would have to be more careful this time. She had bought a long-haired wig and some oversized sunglasses to disguise herself for the drop. But still, she worried. It would be better if the bomb were on a timer. Could she craft a timer? And if she could, would it be possible to target Kollmorgan’s office inside the clinic?
Ruth whipped up a large batch of buttermilk pancake batter with a hint of maple, then stepped outside for the paper. She rarely read the liberal rag, but Sam liked to keep track of what the politicians and godless groups were up to. Back in the house, she poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy the morning brew. The paper lay folded in front of her, and the front-page photo caught her eye. She opened the paper to reveal a portrait-size photo of Mayor Fieldstone in handcuffs with a detective in the background behind him.
Ruth let out a little yelp. The mayor was a member of First Bible Baptist and a CCA supporter. He was their main advocate inside local government. They had hoped to see him elected to the Senate soon. He was supposed to help CCA accomplish its goals. What in God’s name had he done? Ruth anxiously read the story, which was substantially smaller than the picture.
Mayor Miles Fieldstone was brought into police headquarters in handcuffs late Friday evening. Making the arrest was Detective Wade Jackson, head of the investigation in the death of thirteen-year-old J
essie Davenport, whose body was found Tuesday in a dumpster. Jackson would not comment on Fieldstone’s arrest, but Judy Davenport, the victim’s mother, says the police told her that her daughter was suffocated and that they have a solid lead. Davenport also confirmed that Jessie and Mayor Fieldstone knew each other from attendance at the First Bible Baptist Church on 18th and Garfield in Eugene.
Ruth had to stop reading. How irresponsible! She could not believe the paper would print such trash. They practically accused the mayor of killing Jessie. With one irresponsible story, they had probably ruined his chances of getting elected to the Senate. Evangelical Christians across Oregon had been counting on Fieldstone to represent their interests in Congress. Ruth wanted to slap that reporter silly.
And why did she have to mention the church? Any opportunity to make Evangelicals look bad. The media were willing tools in the war against Christians. Maybe the newspaper needed a little shake up too. Make them think twice about printing such propaganda.
Saturday, October 23, 7:45 a.m.
The alarm blasted Jackson out of a fitful sleep. He had lain awake for hours the night before, his brain scampering from one worry to another. He’d mishandled Fieldstone and would suffer the fallout from that. He might even be pulled off the case. And if the mayor’s DNA didn’t match, he could kiss his job goodbye.
Then there was Kera Kollmorgan in the hospital fighting for her life, while her attacker was still out there, most likely preparing for a new assault. Jackson felt helpless to protect the clinic workers. And he could not stop thinking about Katie and Jessie. How much did they have in common? The idea that his little girl may have had a sexual encounter made him ill, and he refused to believe it. Katie and Jessie had gone their separate ways.
Jackson showered, grabbed his keys and his evidence bag, and stepped out into the early morning mist. The Saturday paper was a little damp, but the mayor’s twelve-by-twelve photo was unaffected. Jackson’s image in the background was a little blurry, but the tension in his face was unmistakable. Ah Jesus. This would get ugly.
Jackson read the story in the car and cursed Sophie Speranza for her recklessness. If the case ever came to trial, the mayor would probably be granted a change of venue because this story would poison the jury pool.
He tossed the paper in the back seat and hit the road, buying coffee and breakfast at McDonalds on the way. He hoped like hell it would be his last trip to Portland for this case.
Chapter 23
Saturday, October 23, 10:16 a.m.
The lab did not have good news for him.
“There was no saliva in the lip gloss to test,” Debbie reported. “And the vaginal discharge in the orange panties does not match Jessie Davenport.”
Damn. Jackson tried not to feel disappointed. He knew better than to count on the evidence to support his theories. The evidence spoke for itself. “What about the saliva in the sheets?”
“We’re still processing that.”
“Thanks, Debbie.” The woman looked exhausted, and he knew she was working over the weekend to expedite this case. He handed her the brown evidence bag. “This new swab is critical. Please compare it to both the semen and the pubic hair. And I need the analysis immediately. I put myself out on a limb for this one.”
She signed Fieldstone’s saliva into record keeping.
Jackson’s cell phone rang three times on the trip back to Eugene, but he didn’t pick up. Instead, he played the messages. First, Owen Warner, the chief of police, left a message that opened with “What the hell is going on?” Then, Sophie Speranza called and said she wanted to “chat with him about the mayor.” That would be a cold day in hell. And last, McCray said he needed to talk to Jackson right away.
He decided to call McCray before talking to the chief. If there was an update on Oscar Grady, he needed to know.
“It’s Jackson. What’s the word on Grady?”
“He killed himself last night.”
“Oh shit.” Guilt stabbed him in the stomach. “Please tell me he left a confession. Poured out his guilt on paper.” Jackson forced himself to focus on the road.
“He didn’t. He left a note saying the police had cost him his job and his girlfriend and ruined his life.”
The knife twisted in his gut.
McCray’s voice got quiet. “I feel like shit. Do we have Grady’s DNA results yet? I’d feel less like shit if I knew he was guilty.”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as we do. You were just doing your job, McCray. We’re seeking justice for a murdered young girl.” Jackson was trying to make himself feel better too.
“I know. But what if he had rehabilitated himself? How can guys like Grady ever build new lives if we keep tearing them down?”
“I’m not sure there’s a better way,” Jackson said. “Did he have a family?”
“His mother lives in Cottage Grove.”
“No kids though?”
“No.”
“Let’s wait for the DNA. Take the weekend off. Try to get some rest.”
“Okay.”
After hanging up, Jackson replayed his interrogations of Grady. Had he crossed the line? Had he pushed an unstable man too far? It hadn’t seemed that way at the time. But he had instructed McCray to “pick his life apart.” And clearly, they had done just that. Jackson couldn’t shake loose of the guilt.
But this case wasn’t over. And he had to stay focused. The chief was probably going to tear him apart, and he needed every piece of supporting information he could gather. Jackson pressed the accelerator and tried to break free from a clump of weekend traffic. Then he dialed Judy Davenport and asked if she would meet with him this morning.
“Not right now,” she said. “I’m getting ready for a prayer breakfast at the church.” She sounded distracted, as if she were in the middle of something.
“I’ll meet you afterward.”
“Call me back.” And she hung up.
Jackson arrived in Eugene in time to catch the crowd at the First Bible Baptist spilling out of the red-brick church. It was a massive building surrounded by a parking lot that took up an entire city block.
This morning’s faithful, a small group compared with a regular Sunday service, hurried for their cars. Rain pelted them as they ran, wetting their bright, crisp church-going clothes. Fieldstone did not appear to be among those praying over bacon and eggs this morning. Had the mayor lost his faith? Or his appetite?
Jackson watched a group of young girls, Jessie’s age, trot down the wide front steps. They were dressed demurely in pink, white, and floral combinations. Jackson wondered if one of them had left some orange panties at the mayor’s pleasure pad.
Judy Davenport was one of the last to leave, flanked on both sides by elderly women, each with a firm grip on her elbows. Dressed in mourners’ black, Davenport kept her head down to avoid the onslaught of rain. Jackson jumped out of his car and followed her to a blue Toyota. Several churchgoers gazed in open curiosity.
“Mrs. Davenport, can we talk for a moment?”
She seemed surprised, but not upset to see him. “Sure. Let’s sit in the car.”
“Did you see the newspaper this morning?” Jackson asked as he dug out his notebook.
“Do you really think Mayor Fieldstone killed Jessie?”
“He is only one suspect. I wish I could tell you more, but I have to wait for the lab results.”
“But why would he kill her? I don’t understand.” She seemed genuinely confused.
“We are pretty sure he was having sex with her. Did you know they had a relationship?”
“Not that kind of relationship.” Mrs. Davenport’s eyes darted around at the church people in the parking lot. “But I saw him talking to her a few times.”
“Where?”
“Here, in church. And once at a fundraiser at the fairgrounds.”
“Did you ever suspect anything?”
“No!”
“Did you know Fieldstone personally? Were you friends?”
Davenport’s hands twisted in her lap. “He made a point of being nice to me.” She hesitated for a long moment. Jackson resisted the urge to prompt her. Finally she said, “He gave me money once.”
“How much? And what did he say when he offered it?” This was unexpected.
“He offered me fifteen hundred dollars so I could pay off Jessie’s braces. I wondered how he knew I needed the money.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
Judy Davenport shook her head and began to cry.
Jackson squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
As he stepped out of the car, he noticed Trina Waterman, a reporter with KRSL, setting up in the parking lot for interviews with two churchgoers.
Oh shit. Not now. Jackson could not get back to his car without passing right by her. But he had no choice, he had a meeting with the chief of police in twenty minutes.
The reporter noticed him as he approached and signaled her cameraman to swing his camera around. Jackson smiled, nodded, and kept walking.
“Officer Jackson, is Miles Fieldstone your only suspect in this case?”
“I can’t tell you that.” He kept moving.
“What motive have you established? Were he and Jessie sexually involved?” Waterman called out her question from about five feet away. The two church women who were preening for their turn in front of the camera looked horrified.
“It’s too early to speculate. We’re waiting for lab results.” Jackson kept moving.
Waterman was behind him now and Jackson resisted the urge to run. But he suspected that her other potential interviewees had taken off. That was the gamble in going for the bigger fish.
Chapter 24
Saturday, October 23, 11:46 a.m.
On the ride home from the prayer breakfast, Nicole and Rachel sat in the back seat of the Clarkes’ Ford Astro and didn’t talk much—not in the presence of Nicole’s parents. Rachel had come up to Nicole after the meal and asked to spend the afternoon together.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club Page 17