Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  He hesitated. “Completely confidential? Just like the way you protect your clients’ information?”

  “Of course.”

  “It looks like she was suffocated. At first glance, the scenario seems very similar to Jessie’s death.”

  “Does that mean the mayor is a psychopath? It seems so hard to believe.”

  Jackson rubbed his temples as Kera poured him a cup of coffee.

  “I can’t figure how all this fits together,” he said after a long moment. “Fieldstone may have been in custody at the time of the murder. But maybe not. He may have an accomplice. Or it could be a copycat killing. Or maybe the mayor is a child rapist but not a murderer, and a serial killer is out there, preying on girls who attend my daughter’s school.”

  Kera sat next to him and sipped her wine. She would need it to sleep tonight. “I’ve been thinking about all this too, and I had a strange idea earlier.”

  He looked surprised and a little eager. “Tell me.”

  “What if the murders are connected to the crackpot who bombed the clinic and poisoned me?”

  A dark look flashed in Jackson’s eyes. “How so?”

  “Jessie and Nicole both contacted me.” Kera’s scattered thoughts about the converging events finally came together. “What if the bomber, while targeting the clinic—and specifically me—zeroed in on Jessie and Nicole? What if he is a moralistic executioner type who punishes people he judges to be sinners?”

  Jackson looked somewhat alarmed. “The FBI agent working the clinic bombing case has a theory along those same lines.”

  Kera chewed her lip. “But I can’t figure why the poisoned card was signed NC.”

  “This just keeps getting weirder.” Jackson scowled, and Kera noticed he was starting to get a furrow between his brows that gave his face even more character. Finally he said, “Both victims’ families attend the First Bible Baptist Church. And both girls belonged to a religious youth group. It could be somebody from the church.”

  “And the letter to me was signed God’s Messenger.”

  “I was so sure it was the mayor.” Jackson pushed his hands through his hair. “And it still could be. He goes to the same church. But I just don’t see him as the clinic bomber. I feel like I need to start all over with this investigation.”

  “Will this psycho target another young girl? Or should I be worried about my own safety?”

  Jackson grabbed her hands and held them in his own. “Can you get out of town for a while? Maybe take a leave of absence?”

  “I could. But I won’t. I don’t run from things.”

  “I knew you would say that.” He let go and reluctantly stood to leave. “You need a perimeter alarm.”

  “I made an appointment to have one installed, but they can’t be here until Thursday.”

  “You should carry mace with you at all times.”

  Kera laughed and pulled the little canister from her pocket. “I had some in my hand when I answered the door.”

  “Excellent. Other safety basics.” Jackson used his fingers to tick off his points. “Stay in groups of people, stay in well lighted places, and vary your route to work but always take busy streets.”

  They were standing six inches apart. Kera could feel the warmth of his body and the lingering scent of his deodorant. “You sound like my mother.” She smiled. “Except for the part about varying my route to work. She advocates for consistency.”

  Jackson pulled back and gave her a serious look. “Consistent patterns are how killers and rapists target their victims. Mixing it up is important right now.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  Kera walked him to the front door. He opened it, then turned. She thought he was going to give her one more piece of safety advice, but instead, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

  “Take care of yourself. The world needs people like you.”

  Monday, October 25, 9:06 p.m.

  On the drive home, Ruth had second thoughts about leaving the kids alone, but Sam showed up a few minutes after they walked in the door.

  “Where have you been?” Ruth asked out of habit when they were alone in the kitchen. She was too preoccupied at the moment to feel any real concern.

  “At a meeting with supporters,” Sam said, opening a cupboard. “Businessmen with deep pockets who want to fund our Moral Marriage campaign.”

  “That sounds promising.” Ruth kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I have to run out to the store. Need anything?”

  “Mothers Taffy cookies.”

  Ruth laughed. “I knew you would say that.”

  She grabbed a light jacket and headed out.

  Ruth stopped at Safeway and bought the cookies and some chocolate soymilk, so she wouldn’t forget them later and walk in the house empty-handed. The drive up to Kollmorgan’s took only six minutes, despite the climb. As she passed the address, she realized the house was within walking distance of her own home.

  Ruth was also struck by the obvious value of the home. Not to mention the view Kollmorgan must have from her backyard. Was her husband a lawyer? Or a plastic surgeon?

  Ruth made a U-turn at the next intersection, then circled back and parked across the street, one house down. There weren’t many streetlights up here, but the homes all had porch and yard lights, so she had just enough illumination to assess the situation’s tactical possibilities. Kollmorgan’s front yard was narrow, and a tall brick wall snugged up tight against the building on either side, keeping the backyard private. Except for the front door, most of the points of entry were on the other side of the brick barrier. Not good. But there was no sign or sound of a dog anywhere nearby. That made up for the lack of access.

  Ruth quietly opened her car door and slid out. She scurried across the narrow curving street, then moved down the sidewalk and stood in the shadows at the edge of Kollmorgan’s property. The abortionist’s little white SUV was parked in the driveway, despite having an oversized garage. Another unexpected bonus. This would be so simple.

  Just as Ruth turned to leave, Kollmorgan’s front door opened. Her heart fluttered in panic as she backtracked. As she darted up the sidewalk, Ruth glanced back at the house. A familiar man stood near the doorway, then leaned in and kissed Kollmorgan. Ruth ducked behind a van parked on the street, then peeked back.

  The man moving toward the sidewalk was Detective Jackson! The cop who had just questioned her and the other CCA members right in the middle of a prayer session and made them feel like criminals. Now he was kissing the killer! Ruth’s fists balled in anger, and she could feel blood swooshing in her ears. Who would Kollmorgan seduce next? She was the devil!

  Ruth decided she must act immediately. The Bible said so. The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him. She would target the car tomorrow night.

  Chapter 32

  Tuesday, October 26, 7:05 a.m.

  After a short night’s sleep, Jackson was in his car, gulping coffee and making the familiar drive to Portland. The morning was dark and wet, and he was in an agitated mood. This second murder was turning his brain into a pretzel. Fortunately, traffic was light, the Impala had cruise control, and he was able to let his thoughts percolate.

  So far, all he knew was that Nicole Clarke had disappeared from her house Sunday evening while her parents were gone, then turned up dead—suffocated—the next day, five miles away in a city park. If Jessie had not died under similar circumstances a week earlier, Nicole’s parents would have been Jackson’s primary suspects. But not only did Joanne and Steve Clarke have alibis for the time of her disappearance, he also had no gut reason to believe they were involved in her death.

  Of course, they were still suspects. Everyone was.

  Last night, driving home around 2 a.m., it had occurred to Jackson that the core group of Bible Baptist Church members might be involved in a conspiracy to cover up the girls’ sexually motivated murders to protect one of their own. Even though in the fresh energy of the morning h
e realized the idea was unlikely—one born of frustration and exhaustion—he would not dismiss it. The Clarkes’ alibis came from other church members, and Jackson had left Evans a message, asking her to verify that all of them had actually been at the meeting.

  The light rain turned into a steady downpour, so Jackson turned his wipers up a notch, then passed a semi tractor-trailer that was kicking up a wall of water. Once he was out front, alone on the road again, his thoughts returned to the two murders.

  The idea that the killer and the clinic bomber could be the same person now intrigued him. If this person saw himself as God’s avenger, perhaps he had moved beyond saving fetuses to killing girls whom he believed to be promiscuous and offensive to God. And if the avenger had been following Jessie and saw her leaving the mayor’s apartment, he may have killed her for her sins.

  But where had he done the deed? Jackson wondered. In the parking lot? In a car? So why hadn’t anyone at the apartment complex seen something? And what about the sheet fibers in Jessie’s nose? Then there was Nicole. How did she fit in? Was she also having sex with Fieldstone? Did the orange panties belong to her?

  Oh shit. A new scenario hit Jackson like a slap to the head. His foot came off the accelerator, and the cruise control kicked off.

  What if the mayor’s wife had killed both girls out of jealousy and revenge?

  Jealousy was right up there with greed, lust, and revenge as a motive for murder.

  He needed to interview Janice Fieldstone ASAP. And he would assign either Schakowski or McCray to check out her activities for the days of both homicides. Jackson could not believe that he hadn’t thought of the scorned wife before now. In retrospect, it seemed that he might have zoomed in on the mayor too quickly and ignored other possibilities. Jackson was not happy with his performance. Homicide investigators could not afford to be sloppy.

  Jackson felt a familiar tightening of his chest, accompanied by a little burst of pain. He hoped it was just stress and not an artery.

  Tuesday, October 26, 7:52 a.m.

  Ruth pulled up in front of Kincaid Middle School, and Caleb hopped out of the car. “Bye Mom.”

  Ruth willed Rachel, who was in the back seat, to follow suit without discussion. Her daughter didn’t move. “Rachel, you’re pushing my limits. You are going to school. Now get out.”

  “Have some compassion. Two of my best friends just died. I really don’t want to be here today.”

  Ruth turned and gave her a stern look. “I know you’re sad, but you must pray for strength. Your other friends need comfort too.”

  Rachel started to say something, then thought better of it. But she couldn’t resist slamming the car door just little. Ruth wondered if she should let Rachel get away with it. Her daughter was grieving. Ruth had all day to decide about that, but for right now she had more important things to focus on. She needed to hurry home and get cracking on her timer while the house was empty and before her volunteer shift at the hospital started.

  Ruth drove too fast on the way home, and she prayed she wouldn’t get a ticket. She was wound up and anxious to get this phase over with. Other faithful Christians had ended the lives of abortionists, and Ruth admired their passion and courage in doing God’s work. But many of them had paid the price. She had no intention of getting caught. She couldn’t do the Lord’s work from a jail cell.

  Ruth hurried into the house and locked the door behind her. She stopped in the laundry room to pick up her new supplies, which she had purchased at the 24-hour Wal-Mart the night before. She carried everything to Sam’s office, the only room inside the house that had a lock. The idea of making a timer would have been intimidating to her a few months ago. But once she had connected with her mentor Josiah Stahl, Ruth had seen new possibilities for herself. And watching her first bomb detonate had been empowering. She could be God’s instrument here on earth. She could make things happen now.

  Ruth, who had never even changed a flat tire, had been called on by God to keep fornicators from making their babies pay for their mistakes. The ease with which she picked up skills and adapted to her secret war tactics sometimes still surprised her.

  She had easily located on the Internet the instructions she needed for making a bomb, then confirmed them with a phone call to Josiah. That such information was so readily available was handy for her, but also horribly frightening. Anyone could learn how to create high-impact explosives and then do a devastating amount of damage. That information in the hands of terrorists or anarchists could be deadly on a massive scale. If her work in saving God’s little ones weren’t so important, Ruth would start lobbying for laws to control what was allowed on the Internet.

  From the bottom of Sam’s bookshelf, Ruth picked up a copy of The Feminine Mystique—something her husband had never, and would never, look at—and pulled out her instructions. She had printed them from a website called Ka-Boom!

  First and always, she pulled on plastic gloves. Next she pried the backing from the cheap digital watch, then disconnected the alarm buzzer. The alarm itself would be set to serve as the timer. But first, she used a soldering gun to connect wire leads to the timing device inside the watch.

  The phone on Sam’s desk rang, startling her. Ruth jumped and accidentally pulled the lead wire loose. “Damn.” She picked up the phone. “Hello. This is the Greiners.”

  “Ruth, it’s Eva Strickland. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Eva. But I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

  “It’s important.” Eva’s tone dropped to indicate how serious.

  Ruth tried not to be annoyed. “What is it?”

  “I found a condom under a seat in the minivan.”

  “Oh dear. What do you think that means?” Ruth looked at her unfinished timer and willed herself to be patient.

  “I think John is having an affair.”

  “Oh no. Perhaps there’s another explanation.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Have you talked to him?”

  “Not yet. Do you think I should? Or should I try to keep track of his coming and going for a while?”

  “You mean spy.”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Deception isn’t good for a marriage,” Ruth counseled. “You should talk to John. Get it out in the open and pray about it.”

  “You’re right. Thanks Ruth. I know you’re in the middle of something, so I’ll let you go.”

  “Take care, Eva. I’ll pray for you, too.”

  Ruth hung up the phone and asked God to help Eva and John through their difficulties. God couldn’t do it by Himself though. Eva needed to keep a better eye on both her husband and her daughter. Calling her Angel didn’t make her one. Ruth remembered to thank the Lord for Sam and his faithfulness to her.

  Then she moved back to her task at hand. After resoldering the wire lead, she grabbed the twelve-volt battery and started to work on the primer that would connect the timer to the pipe bomb. This stuff was easy if you took it step by step. The scary part would be attaching it to Kollmorgan’s car. But with a little duct tape and the cover of darkness, all she had to do was slide under the car and tape a little package under the driver’s seat. Rigging the bomb to the ignition would be more effective but Ruth didn’t have those skills, nor the time to acquire them. This could not wait. Kollmorgan was too dangerous. And God’s vengeance must be swift.

  Ruth decided she would go out this evening on foot around 2 a.m. The abortionist’s house was within walking distance, and if anyone saw her or if Sam woke up, she could always claim she was out walking off her insomnia.

  The timer alarm would be set for 8 p.m. sharp the following evening. Ruth planned to slip out of Wednesday night Bible study and call Kollmorgan from the pay phone across the street from the church. She would call at exactly 7:56, giving the target four minutes to grab her purse and get into her car. Ruth would pretend to be a pregnant teenager, desperately in need of help. She would beg the abortionist to come rescue her
right away. Kollmorgan would not be able to resist such a plea. She would rush to her car and race out the driveway.

  And it would be the last thing she ever did.

  Chapter 33

  Tuesday, October 26, 9:46 a.m.

  Nicole’s small pale nakedness against the stainless steel table, illuminated under harsh halogen bulbs, gave Jackson a sense of deja vu. He had experienced this same scene less than a week ago, and it was not any easier this time.

  Ainsworth’s slow, methodical examination made him impatient. He wanted information now. He wanted to be back in Eugene, interviewing Janice Fieldstone and looking at Nicole’s phone records.

  “No signs of rape,” the ME said after an examination of Nicole’s pubic area. “But she’s no virgin either. This girl has had vaginal and anal intercourse and shows faint scarring where I believe she was treated with liquid nitrogen sometime in the past month or so.”

  “For genital warts?”

  “Most likely.”

  “So she and Jessie shared a sexual partner.”

  “Possibly.” Ainsworth never made assumptions.

  “But she was not sexually assaulted at the time of her death?”

  “No.”

  “Any trace evidence?”

  “None in her pubic area. But there’s a small scratch on her hip that could have been made from someone pulling off her pants.” The ME used a magnifier for a closer look. “There’s a tiny piece of fiber stuck in the scratch. We’ll compare it to her clothes.”

  She placed the fiber, which Jackson could not see, in an evidence tray and continued her examination, moving slowly up and down the body. “She has an odd scar on her right shin, possibly made from a dull razor used while shaving her legs.”

  Jackson’s irritation escalated. “Can we look at her nose and lungs? I need to know if she was suffocated.

  Ainsworth looked over her glasses at him but didn’t respond. She began to examine Nicole’s head and neck. She used tweezers to extract the piece of white plastic from Nicole’s earring. “Did Gunderson see this?”