Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (28 page)

In simple terms: Kera Kollmorgan had to be stopped. She could not be allowed to continue her ruthless recruitment of Christian kids. First at the school, then at church—the woman’s audacity knew no limits. The poisoning incident apparently hadn’t convinced the abortionist-whore to back off. What else could Ruth do? It was time to send Kollmorgan to the fires of hell where she belonged.

Monday, October 25, 8:30 a.m.

Kera slept late, ate a big breakfast of scrambled eggs and yogurt, then, with the phone book in front of her, called alarm installation companies until she found one that could come out the next day. She made an appointment for Tuesday morning at 10:15. Sheila had told her to take off all the time she needed, and Kera figured she would take at least a day or two. She told herself that her body needed time to heal, but in truth, she was a little afraid to step out her front door.

Later she checked her phone messages. There were three from her sister who lived over the mountains in Bend. On her last two messages, Janine sounded a little panicked that Kera had not returned her calls, but Kera didn’t think Janine knew about the ricin incident. The hospital staff had not found her relatives, and once she was conscious, Kera had instructed them not to look. Her family worried about her enough already. But she called Janine back to reassure her sister that everything was fine.

But Janine had heard about the bomb and was not reassured. “Please get out of that clinic. As a skilled nurse, you can work anywhere.” This was her family’s consistent theme. Every time they saw abortion clinic violence on TV, they called her and begged her to find a new position.

“I’m not letting one fanatic drive me away from a job I love. What if everyone at the clinic quit? Where would kids and poor women go for birth control?”

“Let someone else do it for a while. You’ve paid your dues.”

“We’ve hired a security guard. And the FBI is investigating. I’ll be okay.” That’s what she kept telling herself. “But as long as we’re talking about this, I want to let you know that I’m changing my will to make you my beneficiary and executor.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Janine’s voice pitched even higher.

“I’m just taking care of business. Daniel isn’t coming back from Iraq, and I believe our marriage is over, so if anything happens to me, you have to take charge.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Relax. It’s just me being anal. I’m not going to die.”

While Kera was checking online news sites, the alarm company called and said they couldn’t be out until Thursday. When she tried to explain the urgency of her situation, they suggested she hire a bodyguard. Kera thanked the man in a less-than-gracious tone and hung up. She grabbed the phone book, thinking she would start over, but now she had one of those blinding headaches, so she went back to bed instead.

Monday, October 25, 8:45 a.m.

Fieldstone’s arraignment was held in a small courtroom inside the Lane County jail. There were no spectators, no family supporters, just a few harried public defenders and five inmates in dark green prison garb that looked just like nursing scrubs: no buttons, no zippers, no strings.

Fieldstone, with his good looks, tanned skin, and full set of teeth, stood out from the other prisoners, most of whom had never seen a dentist. Roger Barnsworth, Fieldstone’s silk-clad attorney, looked out of place among the more modestly dressed public defenders. Next to Barnsworth sat a younger man in a business suit. His cropped blond hair and square jaw gave him a no-nonsense appearance.

Jackson caught himself staring. Who was this guy? And why was he at Fieldstone’s arraignment?

He soon found out. When the proceeding opened, Barnsworth stood up and said, “I move to dismiss all charges, Your Honor.”

“On what grounds?” Judge Morrison looked liked a salt-and-pepper version of Val Kilmer.

“We have an eye witness who places my client a mile from the scene of the crime during the one-hour window for the time of death.”

Jackson groaned. It was partially audible, and Barnsworth glanced his way.

“Please come forward for a conference.”

Barnsworth and Slonecker both approached the judge, who was seated about five feet from the front bench. There were no tables in the tiny room. During the three-minute discussion, Barnsworth gestured at the crew-cut man twice. Jackson concluded that he was the witness.

When the lawyers returned to their seats in the benches, Judge Morrison said, “Motion denied. On the matter of bail–”

Barnsworth stood again. “I move for nominal bail. My client has no criminal record and an exemplary history of public service.”

Morrison didn’t hesitate. “These are serious charges. Motion denied. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for one o’clock, November 29. Next case.”

The witness had come out of nowhere, and Jackson felt his case get shaky. They would need much more than a pubic hair to convict Fieldstone of murder. A lot of wealthy people wanted the mayor to beat the charges, so raising the fifty thousand needed for a bond would be easy. Fieldstone would be out of jail by late afternoon, free to destroy evidence and bribe more witnesses.

A few minutes before 10 a.m., Slonecker showed up in the conference room with a load of coffee and pastry from Full City. The task force was already there, but Agent Fouts had not made an appearance. While they nibbled on coffee cake, Slonecker launched into a speech about documenting the relationship between Fieldstone and Jessie.

“I want witnesses. People who saw them together.” The DA rubbed his hands as he talked. “We have enough physical evidence to convince a jury the mayor had sex with Jessie right before her death. But now that he has a witness—even a bogus one—our challenge is to convince the jury that no one but the mayor could have killed her and dumped her in the trash.”

Jackson was pleased with Slonecker’s passion. The DA had been lukewarm about filing the murder charge, especially knowing that the chief of police was opposed to it. But Fieldstone’s phony witness seemed to have lit a fire under him. Before Jackson could say anything, Agent Fouts walked in.

“I apologize for being late,” he said without sounding sorry. “I had an unexpected call from my supervisor this morning.”

Jackson introduced everyone, then turned to Fouts. “Miles Fieldstone has been charged with rape and murder in the Jessie Davenport case. He’s currently in custody.”

“I’d like to interrogate him about the bombing and ricin incidents.”

Jackson hesitated, then thought, maybe a little more fear would be good for Fieldstone. “If that’s what you want to do.”

“It is.” Fouts pulled his lips back in what was supposed to be a smile. “I also need access to all your case notes.”

“Of course. Everyone, hand your notes to McCray, who will photocopy them for Agent Fouts.”

With obvious skepticism, Slonecker asked, “You think the mayor bombed the Planned Parenthood Clinic?”

Fouts scowled. “I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to be thorough.” The agent’s phone rang and he stepped out of the room to take the call. McCray followed with the paperwork.

Slonecker said, “Where were we?”

“You were talking about witnesses,” Evans reminded him.

“Right. I want you guys to re-canvass the area around the dumpster. I want someone who saw the mayor that afternoon.”

Just then, the door swung open and Robert Zapata, from the missing persons office, charged into the conference room. “Excuse me, I’m sorry for interrupting. But I have a case that might interest you.” Zapata’s mustached face was unusually flustered.

Jackson instantly got an “Oh shit” vibe. “Tell us.”

“Nicole Clarke left her home last night sometime between 6 and 10 p.m. and did not return. Her parents are hysterical because of what happened to Jessie Davenport. Apparently, the two girls were friends. This is why I’m telling you.”

The “Oh shit” feeling slid into Jackson’s bowels and squeezed. “Are her parents here now?”

Zapata nodded. “They’re pretty upset. They called dispatch last night and a patrol officer went to the house and took statements. But there were no signs of struggle, the girl is fourteen, and her parents admitted that she’d been out late on a previous occasion. So Officer Parsons sent out an Amber Alert and told the Clarkes that was all he could do, and if they hadn’t heard from her by this morning, they should come in and fill out a missing persons report. Now they’re here, and they want to know why we haven’t called out the National Guard.”

Jackson stood up and took a deep breath. “I’ll go talk to them.”

The Clarkes were both pencil thin, with pinched faces, dull brown hair, and big glasses. They could have been brother and sister. Except Mrs. Clarke also had a long forehead with a deep crease from years of scowling. Zapata had put them in the soft brown interview room, and they huddled close together on the big leather couch. Joanne’s pink sweater was the only bright thing about the couple. But her eyes were swollen with tears just waiting to overflow.

Jackson introduced himself and sat down across from them. Zapata sat in a chair off to the side with his notes in hand. Neither parent moved to shake Jackson’s hand. They just nodded.

Before Jackson could speak, Joanne blurted out, “Why isn’t anybody looking for my daughter?”

“An Amber Alert went out last night, and search and rescue teams will get involved now. But I need to ask you some questions before I can investigate.”

“We’ve been through this twice now,” Steve Clarke spoke up.

“I know. I’m sorry. Tell me again. Were you home last night?”

“No. We went to a meeting in Portland. A Conservative Culture Alliance meeting.” Mr. Clarke tugged at his tie. Jackson realized he was probably still wearing his Sunday church clothes. “We left the house around six o’clock. Nicole was home by herself.”

Mrs. Clarke cut in. “Nicole’s fourteen and a half and very responsible.”

“When did you get home?”

“Just before midnight.” Joanne took the lead again. She leaned forward, as if she could will Jackson into doing something with the force of her physical presence. “We go the first Sunday of every month, and we’ve never had a problem before. Nicole wouldn’t just take off. Something terrible has happened, I just know it.”

“I assume you’ve called all her friends?”

“Of course. We called last night and again this morning. We called every place she could possibly be.”

“Do you have a picture of her with you?”

“We gave one to Officer Parsons and one to Officer Zapata.”

Robert opened his file folder and handed the five-by-seven photo to Jackson. The picture didn’t do Nicole justice, Jackson thought. She had seemed quite pretty that day in the school office with her orange blouse and shiny dark hair.

“Let’s notify the local media that she’s missing. Get her picture out to the public.”

The Clarkes perked up at the idea, but Jackson was not optimistic.

Monday, October 25, 12:05 p.m.

Travis Walters and Jeremy Carson left school at noon in Travis’ 95 Toyota Corolla and headed up Willamette Street. Their destination was Edgewood Park near the base of Spencer Butte. It was at the edge of the city limits, in a large wooded area between two new upscale housing developments. They had an hour for their lunch break, the sun was shining, and they intended to enjoy their free time. On the way, they rocked with Kid Rock, and Jeremy rolled a joint from a small bag of pot he’d swiped from his cousin. Jeremy started to light the joint, but Travis protested.

“Not in the car. My parents will smell it.” Travis had only had his license for three months, and he didn’t want to lose it yet.

“Pussy.”

“Shut up.”

Once they reached the park, they took off on foot for a place known as Party Rock. It was a massive granite outcropping that overlooked a small shaded valley covered with ferns. The view wasn’t that great, but they had the place to themselves and a bright blue sky to sit under.

They smoked the joint without much discussion. Afterward they talked about a girl they both liked, then had a contest to see who could throw a rock the farthest. Travis won by a good thirty feet.

“Who’s the pussy now?” he gloated.

Jeremy flipped him off, then demonstrated his ability to stand on his hands for three minutes. Travis was impressed every time he saw the display.

Travis checked his watch. It was 1:25 and they had already missed half of fifth period. “Oh crap. We gotta go. I can’t miss algebra again or Peterson will call my parents.”

“And then you’ll get grounded?” His friend used one of his annoying voices.

“That’s right.”

Travis started down the trail back to the parking area. Then wham! Jeremy shoved him off the path and onto the slope. He landed face-first in a bed of ferns.

“Fucker!” Travis yelled, spitting greenery out of his mouth.

Jeremy laughed like a donkey.

Travis put his hands out to push himself up and encountered something strange with his right fingers. It was smooth and cool and a little squishy. He clambered to his feet and stepped down the slope to investigate.