Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (7 page)

“We’ll have to revise our employee handbook again,” Kera said. “The section on dealing with activists doesn’t cover bombs.” A few of her co-workers laughed, and everyone else smiled. Kera was glad no one had lost their sense of humor.

Sheila quickly charged back into leadership mode. “We all have to be hyper observant. Pay attention to anything suspicious left lying around: purses, backpacks, even coats. As long as we have the security guard, we’ll have him inspect backpacks before they come in.” She paused and looked around. “Thanks for showing up today, all of you. Other people, in other lines of work, might not have. It took a lot of courage, and we’ll do our best to keep everyone safe. You’re a great group of people, doing great work.”

A moment of silence. They needed to hear that, and yet, it made them uncomfortable.

“One more thing. Please don’t talk to the press, even if they approach you outside of work.” She glanced in Kera’s direction. “I’m not telling you that you can’t. I’m just asking you to refer them to Andrea, so that she can speak in one voice for all of us.”

“Have you heard from the police?” Kera asked. “Do they have any leads?”

“Not yet. But they’re going to coordinate with the Portland detectives who handled their bomb cases. I’ll keep everyone posted if I hear anything. So back to business.”

For a second, no one moved. Then, almost in unison, they rose and began to file out. But their steps lacked spring. Kera stayed and caught Sheila’s eye. The director stuck around until everyone was gone.

“What’s on your mind?” Sheila tapped a fingernail on the table.

“Did you hear the news this morning on KRSL about the dead girl?”

The director looked alarmed. “What dead girl?”

“Her name’s Jessie Davenport. She was in here yesterday at the time of the explosion. I treated her for genital warts. Now she’s dead. They found her body in a dumpster.”

“Dear God.” Sheila dropped back into her chair.

“The police want people who saw her yesterday to come forward.”

Sheila shook her head before Kera finished her sentence. “You can’t. It’s that simple. If the police discover on their own that she was here and get a search warrant for our files, then we’ll cooperate. We cannot divulge client information under any other circumstances.” Sheila reached over and patted Kera’s hand. “I know you want to help, but it’s like when a reporter won’t reveal her sources even to help solve a crime. We have to protect the greater, long-term good of what we do.”

“I hope they get the guy very soon.”

“Me too.”

Wednesday, October 20, 7:55 a.m.

Ruth dropped off the kids at school, then cut over to West 11th Avenue and headed west. She was anxious to see the results of her work. To see the building all boarded up and empty. The sluts driven from their house of horror.

The clinic bombing story had dominated the local news last night and made the front page of the paper this morning. Ruth had inhaled every word. It was thrilling to finally be making things happen instead of sitting on the sidelines complaining and praying. The only disturbing part of the news was from that clinic whore, Kera Kollmorgan, who had called Ruth “a fanatic with no regard for human life.” How dare she? She was the abortionist!

Ruth reminded herself not to care what others thought of her. This was God’s work. And God was pleased. Ruth was certain. When she opened her Bible this morning—choosing a page at random—it had opened to Matthew Chapter 3. Then Ruth had closed her eyes and pointed to a line on the page. It was 3:17.
Suddenly a voice came from heaven saying, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

It was a sign. God was well pleased with her efforts.

Ruth hummed to herself as she drove. Not even the heinous traffic on West 11th tested her good mood. Rather than drive right past the clinic, she pulled into the Target parking lot and drove through it to the far exit. She sat in the exit and stared at the gray-brick building across the street. The lights were on, the parking lot was half full of cars, and a young woman hurried up the sidewalk as if late for an appointment.

Business as usual.

Ruth’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, she was too upset even to pray. How was this possible? She had shaken their building with the wrath of God. Yet, they were still going on—dispensing birth control to young harlots and scheduling more baby killings — as if nothing had happened. Ruth shook her head. She had been too conservative. The devil was a tenacious and treacherous enemy.

Wednesday, October 20, 8:07 a.m.

Kera barely had time to pull files and stock the exam rooms before the first clients arrived. She had been worried that women would skip their appointments this morning—out of fear for their safety or concern that their privacy would be violated by reporters or cops hanging around. Which, of course, was the point of the bomb. But clearly, women were willing to risk their lives for birth control.

They only had two no-shows that morning—one less than average. The walk-in traffic was a little lighter than usual, but the vehicle traffic on the street was constant. The front-page newspaper story about the explosion was drawing plenty of gawkers driving by to take a look at the damage. Kera was grateful for the break from walk-in clients. She had twenty minutes until her next scheduled appointment, and she planned to spend it searching through the charts for Nicole and any other Kincaid students who had come into the clinic recently.

The last twelve months of client folders were filed alphabetically in a wall of shallow cabinets in the front office. The folders were tagged and color-coded by last names and dates. When the twelve-month expiration period passed with no new visits, folders were moved to the back filing room where they kept inactive charts for three years. Once a client had been gone for three years, the staff moved those charts to a storage unit, where they stayed for another seven years. Every January, they shredded all the charts older than ten years.

Fortunately, they had moved from a previous site downtown into this building only a few months ago, and they had carted a load of folders off to storage early. The clinic was also blessed with volunteers who helped out with everything from stuffing envelopes for fundraising drives to shuffling the files from one place to another. Of course, all volunteers went through a background check and rigorous screening process to weed out any potential saboteurs.

But it wasn’t a foolproof system, Kera realized. Had a volunteer planted the bomb?

She called out to Roselyn at the front desk a few feet away. “Were there any volunteers in the building yesterday?”

The girl finished her task on the computer and turned to face her. “Not that I know of. But Sheila gave a list of volunteers to the cops yesterday.”

Of course, the director had already thought of that. Kera went back to the charts, hoping that Roselyn wouldn’t ask what she was looking for. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the project would take hours and that she would have to stay quite late to get through all the charts. And what would she really accomplish? Many clients, especially the young ones, didn’t bother to fill out the questionnaires completely. So if any of the Kincaid students had skipped the optional line for where they attended school or had made something up, they would slip through her screening process. But then, the kids who came into the clinic knew their information would never be shared, so most of them were not afraid to be truthful.

Kera shook off her doubts and decided to follow through. Jessie’s death—followed by Nicole’s outburst of guilt and fear of God’s punishment—made Kera anxious to see if there was a pattern of unsafe sexual activity among students at Kincaid Middle School. She was head of the clinic’s teen outreach program. This was her job. Lives could be at stake.

Fifteen minutes later—starting in the A’s and working through the C’s—she found Nicole Clarke. The thirteen-year-old Kincaid student had been treated with liquid nitrogen for genital warts on September 12th. She had come in for condoms a month before that. Obviously, the supply hadn’t lasted long enough, or she hadn’t bothered to use them. Julie had seen Nicole that first time and had noted in the chart that she had encouraged the client to consider a more reliable form of birth control.

Kera jotted down Nicole’s basic information and returned the file. She paused for a moment, feeling ill at ease. Was she violating clinic policy? Not if she didn’t take the information out of the building. And she had no intention of sharing the names with anyone. She was just gathering data and looking for a pattern—in essence, conducting her own micro-epidemiological study.

Her concern went beyond a group of adolescent kids having unprotected sex. One of those girls was dead. Because so many murdered women died at the hands of their lovers or ex-lovers, Kera thought it very likely that Jessie’s sex life was connected to her death. She would learn everything she could, then find a way to share what she could anonymously with the police. Detective Jackson came to mind, and she wondered if he was handling Jessie’s case.

Wednesday, October 20, 8:03 a.m.

Jackson picked up a breakfast burrito from one of the portable kiosk vendors on the downtown mall and a tall cup of house coffee from Full City. A group of middle-aged male joggers in shorts trotted past him as he walked back to the department. Jackson felt a pang of guilt. His doctor was bugging him to exercise more, in addition to taking the cholesterol medicine, but so far, he hadn’t worked it into his schedule.

A damp gray cloud hung over the downtown area, but Jackson could feel the heat of the sun trying to burn through. Morning traffic picked up speed as he hurried in to city hall.

He had worked out of the white-brick building for nearly twenty years, and passing by the ugly fountain felt like coming home. Warm meat and coffee smells from his purchases drifted into his nostrils as he clipped into headquarters and down the hallway that opened into the investigations area.

Not even feng shui could help this setting. The only saving grace in the large room was the bank of windows along the outside wall. But the vertical wooden beams that surrounded the building ruined the view, and the blinds were often closed anyway. There were no dividers between the crowded group of desks and no plants in the corners. The work stations were grouped according to units: property crimes, financial crimes, violent crimes, and vice /narcotics. Narrow walkways lined with filing cabinets separated the clusters. Violent crimes had the largest area, with eight of the sixteen detectives. Everyone in the room reported to Sergeant Denise Lammers.

Jackson moved toward his desk in the rear right corner. Detective Michael Quince, who had been assigned the bomb case when Jackson was pulled off, looked up as he passed. “The Portland police think we should get the FBI involved in the bombing case.”

“Ask Lammers,” Jackson responded. “It’s her call. ”

Jackson plopped in his chair and washed down a Vivarin tablet with a gulp of coffee. On the first few days of a homicide he couldn’t consume enough caffeine. He had been up for more than twenty-four hours now, and this was only round one. The burrito disappeared in six bites. His stomach, which hadn’t encountered food since yesterday lunch, rumbled in surprise.

Last night after leaving the Davenport home, he’d met with an assistant district attorney and together they had written up half a dozen search warrants, including paper for a complete search of the Davenport home and vehicles—the vehicle search was valid because Jessie had been transported—phone records (land and mobile) for both Jessie and her mother, and a list of tenants for both apartment buildings. Judge Cranston, a great friend of law enforcement, had gotten out of bed at 10:30 last night and signed them all.

Before picking up breakfast this morning, Jackson had met with Sergeant Lammers to update her on the Jessie investigation. And earlier, in the middle of the night, he had entered the few details of the crime that he had into NCIC, a national homicide database run by the FBI—in case they were dealing with a sexual predator or serial killer.

A few partial hits had surfaced, but nothing solid. In two other killings, in Idaho and Illinois, the young women (eighteen and nineteen) had been raped before being left in a dumpster and a landfill, respectively. And another case, in which the victim had been suffocated, involved a thirty-three year old woman who had been raped and beaten first. Neither was a good match. The lack of obvious violence in Jessie’s case was an anomaly.

Sipping his coffee and hoping the Vivarin would hit soon, Jackson typed all his handwritten notes into a Word document, then made lists of leads to follow up and people to interview. The typing skills had come to him slowly, grudgingly, over the years. His thick fingers were too big for the keypads and he had to look at the numbers every time, but the skill was invaluable. It allowed him to expand his fractional descriptions and thoughts into a detailed and highly readable document.

Finally, he hit print, picked up his paperwork, and headed for the small conference room where the Jessie task force was scheduled to meet at 9 a.m.

The room was claustrophobically small but uncluttered, containing only a dozen folding chairs and a single podium. A five-foot-long, dry-erase board ran across one wall. It would be used to map everything and everyone connected to the case.