Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (9 page)

Rusty, as he introduced himself, was fifty going on seventy, with skinny legs, a soft belly, and hollowed-out eyes. Jackson guessed alcohol to be his poison of choice.

“Oscar’s at work,” Rusty said. “Over at Cartell’s Lumber. At least that’s where he’s supposed to be.”

“Does Oscar skip work often?” Jackson asked. “And when he does, where does he go?”

“I didn’t say that.” Rusty scratched his dirty hair. “Check the lumber yard.”

Cartell’s wasn’t much of a business. The yard was an open, mud-splattered mill that cranked out dog-eared boards for picket fences. The tiny front office was housed inside a rust-streaked trailer that smelled of mildew. And the morbidly obese owner was squeezed behind a desk that was two sizes too small for him.

“What can I do for you, officer?” he asked with little enthusiasm after Jackson introduced himself.

“I’m looking for Oscar Grady.”

“He’s here. Like most days. Want me to go get him?”

“Not yet. Was he here yesterday?”

“Yep. Clocked out at three with everyone else.”

That left Grady with plenty of time to meet up with Jessie, Jackson thought. “Did you ever see him with anybody? A girlfriend? A kid?”

“Nope. He came and went on the bus just like all the other ex-cons who work for me. I don’t know a thing about his personal life, and I don’t care. He’s dependable, but a little slow-moving. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Thanks. Will you show me who he is?”

The big man sighed and heaved up from the desk.

Grady was about thirty-five with a thin build that suggested vulnerability. His delicate features said “trust me.” Jackson could see how female students would find him approachable.

“Can you make this quick?” he asked before Jackson could speak. “I’m on the clock here, and I don’t want to lose my job.”

“Why don’t you clock out? This may take a while.”

Jackson followed him to the time clock near the front office, then suggested they talk in the car.

“I don’t think I can help you much.” Grady flashed Jackson a power smile.

They climbed into the Impala, and Jackson slammed the car door shut.

“I’m one of the good guys,” Grady offered. “I go to work. I go to meetings. I see my PO once a week. That’s my life.”

“Where did you go after work yesterday?”

“Home.” Grady smiled sadly. “If you can call that place home.”

“Did anyone see you there? Did you make any calls?”

“I don’t remember. Why? What is this about?”

“Just answer the question. Did anyone see you after work yesterday?”

“Not right away. I went straight to my room and slept for a while. Then I went to a meeting later. People saw me there.” A drop of sweat started down Grady’s forehead.

“What meeting? When and where?”

“AA meeting. At the Baker Building near campus. It started at six.”

“You’re an alcoholic?”

“No. But I have to attend two meetings a week to live at the Recovery House.”

“Why do you live in a Recovery House if you’re not an alcoholic?” Jackson asked.

Grady shrugged. “It’s cheap. And the residents make no judgments.”

Time to mix it up, he thought. “How well do you know Jessie Davenport?”

Grady blinked. “Who?”

“Jessie. You know. The girl you’ve been seeing.”

“No.” Grady shook his head emphatically. “You’ve got the wrong sex offender. Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t me.”

Jackson forced Grady to make eye contact. “What makes you think something happened to her?”

“Because you’re here, asking me questions.” Grady’s cool charm started to frazzle.

“Tell me about the girl you had sex with before you went to prison.”

“No. That’s the past. You can’t do this to me.” Grady rocked forward in the seat.

Jackson put the keys in the ignition. “Let’s go down to the station and get a DNA swab. I’ll call Barstow and see if your PO can join us for a chat.”

“Oh shit.” Grady grabbed the door handle and pushed out of the car. Jackson, a step behind, paralleled his move. Free of the car, Grady ran for the railroad tracks. Jackson raced after him, the Sig Sauer jamming into the ribs under his arm. Mud sucked at his shoes, and his heart pounded heavily. Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to chase a suspect.

It was a short chase. Grady lost his footing on the muddy railroad embankment and went down. Jackson slid into him and landed on Grady’s stomach with both knees. Grady was cuffed before he could get his feet under him.

The Hyster driver watched from his perch on the big yellow machine as Jackson led Grady to the Impala.

“Don’t do this to me,” Grady pleaded again.

Wednesday, October 20, 10:15 a.m.

Ruth was carefully packing potassium nitrate into a four-inch metal cylinder when the doorbell rang. It startled her so badly she almost dropped the device. She tried to ignore the intrusion, but whoever it was rang several more times. Then she remembered the radio was on in the living room and realized her visitor must feel certain she was home. She set the would-be pipe bomb down on the laundry table, stepped out into the hall, and closed the laundry room door. She hurried into the kitchen and peeked out the corner window. The car in the driveway was a dark blue sedan she didn’t recognize. Probably a salesman who was ignoring her No Solicitors sign. It was best to answer the door and send him on his way.

Ruth yanked off her apron—which reeked of chemicals—stuffed it under the kitchen sink, and hurried across the dining room and into the foyer. She reached over and touched the Bible on the credenza and took a moment to compose herself. Then she opened the door a few inches. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

The bulky man in the ill-fitting suit held up a badge and said, “I’m Officer Schakowski of the Eugene Police. Can I come in?”

Ruth almost had a heart attack. They knew! But how?

“What’s this about?” Ruth asked, praying to sound casual.

“I’m investigating the death of Jessie Davenport. I understand you and your daughter were close to her.”

Jessie was dead? How? When? Ruth was stunned. Then relief washed over her. The cop was not here about the bomb at the clinic. Her brain scrambled to find the right words. “How in the Lord’s name did it happen?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Let’s sit out on the deck.” Ruth stepped outside, closed the door behind her, and led him over to the Adirondack chairs. The bright sun failed to warm the morning air, and Ruth wished she had a sweater. She noticed the cop giving her a thorough appraisal. What did he see, she wondered? A petite, Christian woman in her mid-forties who dressed nicely even at home by herself? Or did he see a nervous Nellie who did not want him in her home for some suspicious reason? Ruth perched on the front edge of a chair and prayed it was the former. She had to get this over quickly, so she could finish her task and put away her materials before picking the kids up from school. Silently, she asked God to keep her secrets safe.

There was still much work to do.

“When was the last time you saw Jessie?” The detective had a notepad in hand.

“Last Sunday at church.” Unless that was Jessie at the clinic yesterday. “Why are you questioning me?”

“Her mother said she spent a lot of time here.” He made it sound like a question.

“She had dinner with us every once in a while.”

“Do you know why anyone would want to harm her?”

“Was she murdered?”

“Yes. You haven’t seen it on the news?”

“We try not to watch that liberal propaganda.” Ruth tried to keep her face from telegraphing her disgust.

“Back to my question,” the detective said with a little impatience. “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to harm Jessie?”

“Of course not. Jessie was a sweet girl.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“She was friends with other Christian boys in the Teen Talk club, but they’re all too young to date.”

“Did she know anyone who lived in the Regency or Oakwood Apartments between Hilyard and Patterson?”

Ruth shrugged. “I don’t know. She was a good Christian girl. If someone killed her, it had to be some psychopath. I told Judy not to let her dress that way.”

The detective jotted something down. “How did she dress?”

“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” Ruth backtracked. “She wasn’t trashy like some girls, but her skirts were a little short, and she wore too much makeup for a thirteen-year-old.”

“What hobbies or activities did she have?”

“I really can’t help you. Just because she went to our church doesn’t mean I knew her that well.” Ruth stood up. Jessie’s death was a shame, but she had nothing else to say, and she really needed to get the cop out of there. She would make a point to counsel and pray with Judy Davenport later this week.

“What church is that?”

“The First Bible Baptist.”

The detective jotted it down. “Is your daughter Rachel here?”

“She’s in school, but I’m sure there’s nothing she can tell you either.”

The detective handed her a card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us find Jessie’s killer.”

When he was gone, Ruth thanked God for getting her through the ordeal. It was one more sign that she was doing the right thing and that God would protect her.

She returned to the laundry room and went back to work on the device. Her training as a chemist had been largely wasted in the ShopKo pharmacy where she’d worked before marrying Sam. Filling pill bottles had been tedious, mindless work. Then one day at a CCA meeting in Portland, she’d mentioned her chemistry degree to Josiah Stahl, a soft-spoken man from the Beaverton chapter. His eyes had lit up, and he’d leaned in and asked her what she thought about Eric Rudolph. Ruth had replied, “He should have stuck to abortion clinics.”

After that Josiah had invited her to join him in a private Bible study. He had quoted her many moving passages, such as Matthew Chapter 18, in which Jesus said:
“See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look upon the face of my heavenly Father.”

During the prayer session that followed, God revealed to Ruth why she’d spent all that time studying chemistry. With a little coaching from Josiah, she developed the skills to make bombs. Tactical intimidation bombs that would help close the abortion clinics that allowed young women to evade the consequences of their sins.

Ruth smiled to herself. Actually, anyone could make an explosive device. It was not complicated. But a little knowledge of chemistry could keep you from blowing your fingers off. Speaking of which, she was rushing this too much, trying to make up for the lost time spent with the detective.

Ruth stepped back from her worktable and centered herself. She had to finish this today, but every move had to be deliberate. A cleansing breath, followed by a brief prayer. Please Lord, if this mission is your will, keep me safe. Ruth had decided that morning to set off another bomb at the clinic right away. Then they would have to take her seriously.

If she skipped lunch, she would still have time to complete the device, put all her materials away, shower and change her clothes. Then she would gather up Caleb’s baseball gear so she could pick him up and take him straight from school to baseball practice. While he was out in left field, she would visit Judy Davenport and counsel her about spending more time on CCA’s missions. Maybe Jessie’s death would be the wake-up call that would get Judy right with God again.

Wednesday, October 20, 3:35 p.m.

Kera had another opportunity to peruse the files late in the afternoon when one of her scheduled appointments didn’t show. She checked the clinic lobby and found it empty. No surprise. The extensive media coverage of the bomb incident would probably keep some clients away for at least a few days. And anyone who hadn’t seen the news might still be intimidated by the boarded up front window and yellow crime-scene tape roping off a big chunk of the landscaping. Kera didn’t have much confidence the police would catch the bomber. A different detective, Michael Quince, had come by the clinic this morning and started over with the questions. That was not a good sign. He had also said the FBI would soon take over the case. Another bad sign. Federal investigators were notoriously poor communicators.

Meanwhile, the clinic’s lab assistant who had called in sick yesterday had called in and quit this morning. And Bria, another nurse, had called in with a family emergency. Kera wondered if she would ever see her again. Now the lobby, which had seemed business-as-usual that morning, was empty of clients.

Kera pushed those thoughts aside and dove into the files. Investigating the “sex club”—as she had come to think of it—would help keep her mind busy, giving her less time to worry. She started at the end of the C section where she had left off this morning and began thumbing through charts. Patients’ birthdates were listed on the file tab, so it was easy to skip everybody older than sixteen.