Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  She took a deep breath to calm herself, then felt with her hands for the flat spot. Still working in near darkness, she positioned the bomb in place with her left hand and used her right hand to tape each end of the cylinder. She tried to be careful not to cover the timing device. Was that enough tape? Would it hold until this evening? Ruth tore off another strip and ripped it lengthwise down the middle, using half of it to secure the center of the cylinder.

  As soon as the last strip was in place, Ruth felt panicked and anxious to get out from under the claustrophobia of the car. She shoved the tape and the flashlight into her center pocket and scooted on her backside until she cleared the edge of the vehicle. Relief washed over her. She’d done it. And the entire process had taken only a few minutes. Ruth scrambled to her feet, then allowed herself one quick look around. She saw no one, and the neighboring homes were still dark. She trotted toward the sidewalk.

  A light flicked on in the three-story home across the street. Ruth turned her face away, and she thought she heard a door open. Her heart skipped a beat. Do not fear, she soothed herself. In the shadows, with the stocking cap pulled low, no one would be able to identify her. She was God’s Messenger. He would watch over her.

  She picked up speed as she moved downhill, turning off McLean Street at the next intersection, just in case Kollmorgan’s neighbor had seen her and called the police. As she jogged toward home, Ruth felt herself smiling. She liked this work and hoped God would have more of it for her.

  Wednesday, October 27, 7:15 a.m.

  Jackson picked up Katie from her aunt’s and drove her to school. It wasn’t much time, but it gave them twenty minutes together and let his daughter know that she was never far from his mind. She seemed to appreciate the gesture. She also hit him up for some cash. For teenagers, sometimes all you could be was either an emotional touchstone or a dependable resource.

  As he was driving away from Kincaid Middle School, he received a call on his cell phone. Jackson pulled into a Dairy Mart to take it. The morning traffic around the schools—soccer moms in giant SUVs—was too crazy to allow him to operate a vehicle and a phone at the same time.

  “It’s Debbie in the ME’s office.”

  “Great. What have you got for me?”

  He heard her pull in a heavy breath, so he braced himself. “The blond hair from Nicole’s clothes doesn’t match any of the trace evidence from Jessie’s body. Nicole’s DNA does not match the secretion from the orange panties found in the mayor’s apartment. And none of the DNA from either crime scene has produced a hit on CODIS.”

  Jackson pressed his teeth together to keep from shouting obscenities.

  “I’m sorry.” Debbie’s sympathy was genuine. After a moment of silence, she said, “I have more lab results if you’re ready.”

  “Give ’em to me.”

  “Nicole had lorazepam in her blood and bladder.”

  “What is that?”

  “A tranquilizer.”

  “Like for anxiety?”

  “Exactly. Only it’s not typically prescribed for children. Especially at that high a dosage. You’ll have to ask her parents or doctor if she was taking it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The entomology report confirms that she died between 7:30 and 9:00 on Sunday night. Oh, and some of the hair on Nicole’s clothes is feline.”

  “Huh.” Not one fucking bit of help, he thought. This second murder was so baffling. Nothing added up. “Thanks. Send copies of all the labs.”

  “Wait. There’s a final report on the Davenport lab work. The DNA of the fetus, a boy, is so closely matched to the sample submitted by Miles Fieldstone that if this were a paternity case, he’d be paying child support.”

  Yes! “Thanks Deb. Thanks for working overtime to get it all done. How can I make it up to you?”

  “You can buy me lunch sometime.”

  “Will do.”

  Now, they had Fieldstone on motive. If only he could figure out how Nicole fit into the picture. Jackson decided it was time to find Travis Walters, the kid Kera said had bragged online about finding Nicole’s body. He figured Travis probably had Nicole’s phone.

  Jackson was also waiting for Schak to call him with a time to interview Janice Fieldstone. The news about Jessie being pregnant with her husband’s baby might be just the leverage that would push the mayor’s wife into a confession.

  As Jackson pulled into the parking lot at Spencer High School, vivid memories flashed in his brain. Friday night basketball games in front of an intense crowd, skipping class with Joe and Eric on warm spring afternoons, pining after Melissa Johnson until he was sick with lust. Twenty years had passed, but some images from his teen years had never lost their edge the way memories from last week often did.

  Out of habit, Jackson took it all in—the boys in the low rider Honda Civic with the illegal running lights under the car, the loner in front of the office defiantly smoking a cigarette on school property, the group of girls—all with tanning salon bellies on display. Teenagers had always been rule breakers, but many kids today were fearless in a way that past generations had not been. It made his job more difficult.

  In the front office, he was greeted by a cheerful student helper, who quickly turned to an adult when Jackson identified himself.

  “How can I help you, sir?” This woman didn’t fit the school secretary mold. She was in her late twenties, built like a rock climber, and had a man’s haircut. But the smile was still a friendly–wary combination.

  “I’m looking for Travis Walters.”

  “Let me look up his schedule.”

  After a moment, she said, “He’s in Life Skills with Mrs. Olsen right now. Kristy, would you please take the detective there?”

  The school had been given a new coat of pukey purple paint sometime in the ensuing years, but not much else had changed. Twenty heads turned as he stepped into the classroom and asked for Travis. An attractive young man with a buzzed head and baggy jeans tentatively approached him. He had dark eyes and full lips and could have belonged to any number of ethnic groups. Jackson held open the door and followed him out. The whispers of curious classmates cut off as the door closed.

  “Let’s go to my car and talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  When they were in the Impala, Jackson locked the doors just for effect. “Travis, we know you and a friend found Nicole Clarke’s body in Edgewood Park. You bragged about it on the Internet. We know you used her phone to call it in. Unless you want me to think you also killed her, you’d better tell me what really happened.”

  Travis took two full seconds to make up his mind.

  Then he shrugged and said: “Nothing happened. We went up to the park to hang out. Jeremy pushed me off the trail. You know, goofing around. And I accidentally touched her body.”

  “Who’s Jeremy?”

  “Jeremy Carson.”

  “Who drove?”

  “I did.” The kid yawned.

  “Did you know Nicole?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No!”

  “Then you won’t mind giving me a DNA swab?” Jackson reached back over the seat for his black bag.

  “No way. You’re not putting me into the system. Not without a warrant.” Travis laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion.

  Jackson tried not to get mad. Kids were so much more savvy about the law and about their rights than they used to be. “What did you do with her phone?”

  A slight hesitation. “Jeremy has it. I told him to leave it, but he doesn’t listen.” Travis rolled his eyes. Apparently, being Jeremy’s friend wasn’t easy.

  “Where can I find him?”

  Travis shrugged. “He’s not in school today. You can check at home, but he’s not there much.”

  “Where else would he be?”

  “Jason’s, maybe. Or the skate park.”

  “Let’s go find him. I nee
d that phone today.”

  Chapter 35

  Wednesday, October 27, 9:05 a.m.

  Kera’s internal debate about whether she should go to work went on through most of the morning. She even dressed in business-casual clothes and made a lunch. But she didn’t go. Physically, she felt capable—not good yet, just functional. But she could not make herself leave the house. Finally, just to put an end to her mental ping pong, she called Sheila and told her she was staying home. Sheila was so nice about it that Kera was able to shed some of her guilt.

  After mentally working through her anxiety, Kera realized that what she feared was that God’s Messenger would breach the sanctuary of her home while she was gone. Once inside, he could inject poison into almost anything in her kitchen. And the horror of the ricin trauma was kept fresh by every painful breath. So until she had a secure alarm system, she could not leave herself that vulnerable. Emotionally, it felt cowardly. Intellectually, it seemed reasonable.

  Because she wasn’t going out, Kera felt compelled to be productive at home. She spent some time cleaning, then made several phone calls. She arranged to rent a storage space and hired movers to haul Daniel’s stuff out this weekend. He had called the night before and made it clear they had no future together. It had been an awkward and painful conversation, but now she knew for sure. It was time to move forward. A second call to Security First netted her a promise that they would be out “tomorrow before nine” to install her alarm system.

  Fresh-brewed coffee in hand, Kera sat down at her computer and used Safari to get online. She scanned MSNBC—no breaking news—then went directly to the girlsjustwanttohavefun website. It was time to get involved. This group of kids needed a safe sex intervention, and this website presented an opportunity for her to contact them directly, but anonymously. Kera logged in using Jessie’s ID and opened the chat page labeled Dirty Gossip, which—no surprise—always seemed to have the most traffic. But this morning, there was no activity; its users were probably in class.

  Calling herself safe_sex_fiend, Kera took a few minutes to compose and post a brief note.

  Are you having sex? Good for you. Are you using condoms? No? Then it’s time for a visit to Planned Parenthood. You could already have a sexually transmitted disease. Or be pregnant and not know it. Planned Parenthood will safeguard your privacy and provide reproductive healthcare services, regardless of your age or ability to pay. Make the appointment now. Or just come in when you can. (The clinic is on Commerce St., across from CourtSports.) Your friends (and partners) are counting on you.

  Kera reread the message several times, made a few minor edits, then hit post. She was curious to see if anyone would respond directly, or if the group would even consider her message worthy of discussion. But even if they didn’t chat about it, at least some of them would read the content and maybe give it some thought. Kera checked other news sites, but clicked back to the sex club page every five minutes. So far, no one had responded. She decided to get away from the computer for a while and give it some time.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself another cup of coffee and promised that she would use her elliptical machine this afternoon to burn off the caffeine.

  The pile of unopened mail on the kitchen table beckoned her. It was unsightly and needed to be dealt with, in spite of her fear. Kera donned latex gloves and a fabric particle mask that covered her mouth and nose. She kept the masks on hand to use while mowing the lawn or cleaning the oven. Today, she hoped it would keep her safe from any contaminants that might come through the post office. This mail is harmless, she told herself. All of it had come either before or on the same day as the poisoned letter. Everything since then was still sitting out there in her mailbox, which was probably crammed to capacity.

  Kera wrote checks to the utility company, her dentist, and Disabled Veterans of America. The solid white envelope with the feminine handwriting addressed to Nathan, she saved for last. The postmark was Salem, the state capital about sixty miles north of Eugene. She made herself open the envelope.

  Kera’s hands shook as she read the last communication to her son.

  Dear Nathan

  I know you thought you’d probably never hear from me again. What’s that saying? Ships that pass in the night. But circumstances have changed. I found out this morning that I’m pregnant. And it’s your baby. There hasn’t been anyone else.

  Kera stopped reading. She stared at the plain white paper with the short, handwritten note, which was now gripped tightly in both hands. It took a moment for the information to process. Nathan had a child. She had a grandchild. Joy filled her heart, expanding out from her chest until her entire body felt almost weightless. She still had a family. Kera focused on the rest of the words.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want this. In fact, I’m thinking of having an abortion. But I couldn’t just do it without letting you know. I know this is the last thing you need right now, being in the middle of a war and all, but I thought you had a right to know. If I don’t hear from you within a month, I’m going ahead with it. I can’t wait any longer than that.

  Again. I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing okay. Be safe.

  Danette

  Panic clutched at Kera’s chest and snatched back her moment of happiness. What if it was too late? Danette may have already had the abortion. Kera searched frantically for a date. There was none on the letter, but the postmark on the envelope said October 10. Why had she let the letter sit so long? She had to find this young woman, to let her know that she wanted this baby. She would offer to help Danette financially and emotionally—in any way that she could. She could even offer to adopt the baby.

  As Kera reached for the phone book, tears rolled down her cheeks. She did not know if she was happy or sad or simply overcome. Ultimately, whether this child was born or not was not her decision, no matter how painful that seemed.

  Oh, but to have a grandchild….

  Wednesday, October 27, 10:55 a.m.

  Jackson rushed through the department, only nodding at Alicia behind the desk, even though she was always friendly to him. He had chased after Jeremy Carson all morning and had nothing to show for it. And the task force was meeting at eleven o’clock and he didn’t want to be late again. Schakowski and McCray walked up just as he approached the conference room.

  Schak clasped him on the shoulder and said, “You look like shit, Jackson. The bags under your eyes are too big for carry-on. Put in for some time off when this is a done deal, okay?”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll do that.” Jackson was suddenly aware that his jacket was wrinkled and that people had noticed he was only shaving every other day.

  Agent Fouts and a younger dark-haired man with a thick torso sat in the chairs. Fouts introduced the new guy as Agent Miguel Morales.

  “Agent Morales is here to help me conduct extensive interviews with the members of the First Bible Baptist Church and the Conservative Culture Alliance. Our focus is to find the bomber and the perpetrator of the ricin attack. But we’ll sit in on these task force meetings for the homicides to gather background information and stay in the loop. Even though Mayor Fieldstone is not a likely candidate for the bombing, there’s still plenty of overlap in these cases.”

  Jackson nodded and resisted the urge to smile. Fouts must have interrogated Fieldstone and come away disappointed. But the FBI agent seemed to be hanging on to the theory that the bomber and the murderer were the same person, or at least connected. Jackson asked, “Have you found anything in your investigation that we should know about?”

  “I got a look at Jessie Davenport’s medical record this morning. She never had an abortion. So that’s not likely the link between the cases.”

  Evans waltzed in looking bright-eyed and sharply dressed in a cobalt blue blazer. Jackson made up his mind to call his doctor for a prescription of that energy drug.

  “Good morning.” She glanced around at the men. “Did you start without me?”

  “No. But
let’s get moving. I want this to be brief. You start, Evans. What do you have to report?”

  Without checking her notes, she said, “I finally talked to someone in the house across the street from the Clarkes. Guy named Ian Marcowitz. He said he took the trash out on Sunday night sometime between 6 and 7 p.m. and saw a minivan parked in the Clarkes’ driveway.” She stopped and cocked her head at Jackson. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. Continue.” Her energy made the rest of them look like zombies.

  “He says the Clarkes drive a minivan, but this one wasn’t theirs. He claims it was bigger. And maybe maroon. But it was getting dark, and he’s not good with color.” Evans made air quotes around the last phrase.

  “Any idea of the make or model?”

  Evans shook her head. “He says he’s not good with cars either.” More air quotes.

  “So, a color-blind man saw a minivan in the driveway. Great. I bet everyone in that fricking church drives a minivan.”

  Evans stared at Jackson. “Did you just say ‘fricking church’?”

  “Sorry.”

  She laughed. “You didn’t insult me, you surprised me.” She continued her report: “I’ve got a call into the DMV to get the make and model of every car registered to everyone connected with these homicides.”

  “I’d like a copy of that report when you get it,” Fouts interjected.

  “Sure.” Evans glanced over at Jackson. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel like a blind man swinging at a piñata on this one. I know the goods are right there in front of us, but I just can’t hit it.”

  “I know what you mean.” Schak tapped his notebook. “Fieldstone’s wife checked herself into a private mental health clinic in Eastern Oregon on Monday. Which means she could have killed Nicole Sunday night, then had a little breakdown. But the clinic director won’t let me talk to her without a court order.”