Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (29 page)

Sophie didn’t like to sit for long periods of time. Even when she was writing, she had to get up frequently and walk around the room. The compulsion had gotten her into plenty of trouble in grade school and middle school. Her teachers had tried various interventions, most of which involved self-monitoring tally sheets. She had trained herself to make it through class periods, but the impulse had never gone away. Sophie had simply learned to suppress it in certain situations.

Right now she needed to get out of the car and walk up the block. The winter sun was dropping from the sky, and the warm day was quickly turning cold. Sophie pulled on her red suede jacket and started up the sidewalk. Michelle’s duplex was still quiet, but other homes on the street were starting to come alive with activity. People were arriving home from work, lights were coming on, and dinner smells drifted into the street. Sophie’s stomach growled as she walked. Had she eaten today? It didn’t matter. She was pursuing an important mission for a breaking story.

At the end of the block, she crossed over and headed back. Why hadn’t Jackson called? Sophie pulled out her cell phone, called him again, and left the same message. This time she was more emphatic. As she neared Michelle’s home, a battered white Subaru pulled into the driveway. The woman who climbed out was substantial, at least five foot ten and two hundred pounds. Brownish hair piled in a bun on top of her head added another three inches. Sophie crossed the street to her car and grabbed her shoulder bag. She waited five minutes, giving Michelle time to settle in, then hurried toward the door.

Her heart pounded as she rang the bell. She’d never felt nervous before an interview before. Meeting people and asking questions had always come easy to her. In a moment Michelle answered, dressed in a loose black caftan. “Hello, sweetie. Are you the Sophie who left a note in my door?”

“Yes. I registered for your poetry workshop.”

Michelle smiled, revealing pretty teeth. “Come inside. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” As Michelle led her into the living room, the poet turned back and said, “I know you’re a reporter for the
Willamette News
, and I’m very curious to hear what this is about.”

Sophie stalled, trying to remember what she had planned to say. Nothing came to her so she blurted out, “Two of the women who recently took your workshop were raped and beaten and a third woman was raped and killed.” Sophie didn’t know yet if Raina had taken the class, but she would bet on it.

“Dear lord.” Michelle’s hands flew to her chest. “That is a stunning announcement.” She slumped down into a couch, letting out a small moan.

“I’m sorry to spring it on you like that. I meant to be more gentle.”

“Who are they? The women who took my class?”

“Amy Hastings and Keesha Williams were raped and beaten but survived, and Raina Hughes was raped and killed.”

“Dear lord.” Michelle lost the flush in her ample cheeks.

“Besides the fact that they were all lesbians, your workshop is the only connection.”

“Why aren’t the police here talking to me?”

“I don’t think they’ve made the connection. I called the detective who’s handling the case as soon as I put it together, but he hasn’t responded.”

“I need a drink.” Michelle heaved herself up from the low beige couch. “Do you want one? Gin and tonic?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Sophie waited in the living room, giving Michelle time to process the information. When she came back with the cocktails, Sophie asked, “Do you think it could be one of your neighbors? Have you ever noticed a man watching your house?”

“I don’t know what to say.” Michelle was nearly breathless. She paused and gulped her drink. Sophie took a tiny sip. She hated gin.

“It has to be somebody who knows you or sees your students come and go.”

Michelle shook her head. “I just don’t know. There’s a house down the street with three teenage boys. They probably notice some of my students, but they seem like nice young men.”

“Have you ever had any men in your classes?”

“I teach one workshop exclusively for men. I don’t get many takers, so I only run it twice a year.”

“You don’t have men and women in the same classes?” Sophie found this curious.

“I try to avoid it. Both genders are more focused and creative when they’re not distracted by sexual tension.” Michelle drained her tumbler of gin and tonic. “So I have workshops specifically for lesbian women, some workshops for all women, and a few just for men. Sometimes I run workshops that focus on a particular type of poetry and in those classes, I’ll have mostly women and maybe a guy or two.”

“Do any of your male students stand out as creepy or violent?”

Michelle gave a little laugh. “These are poetry workshops. They don’t exactly attract the macho violent types.”

Frustrated, Sophie took a sip of her drink and tried not to make a face. She wished Jackson would call. She was starting to feel out of her league. Still, she had a lead story for the paper—a break in the rape/murder cases.

Suddenly, Michelle drew in a sharp breath. “Oh dear lord, I think I know who it might be.”

As Jackson pulled into the parking lot of the county parole/probation office, Ted Conner was coming out the main front door. Jackson parked and moved quickly, catching Conner just as he reached his truck. The PO looked a little surprised to see him again. “Did you find Bodehammer?” Conner asked.

“Not yet. Can we go back into your office for a moment? I want to run a few things by you.”

“Sure. I’m happy to help.” The big man turned and headed into the building.

Back in the small corner office, they both sat down, although neither man settled in. They had an unspoken understanding that this would not take long. Jackson reached in his crime scene bag for the stack of photos.

“We searched Bodehammer’s apartment and I found these pictures. I thought I’d run them by you to see if you recognize any of these women. I’m hoping one of them is a girlfriend or sister, someone who can tell us where Bodehammer might be. They might just be gay women he was targeting.” Jackson leaned across the desk to pass the pictures to Conner.

“Bodehammer doesn’t have a sister that I know of.” Conner stared at the first image for a moment, then flipped it to the back of the stack. He moved through the photos slowly, shaking his head. “These girls all look alike to me. And nowhere near butch enough to be lesbos.”

Jackson wasn’t giving up. “Do you know anything about his father, David Bodehammer? Where he worked? Where he lived?”

“He died of cancer, that’s all I know.” Conner looked up from the stack. “Wait. I think he was a retired logger. Something Ryan said once.”

Jackson wanted to dig deeper, but he decided to let Conner finish looking at the photos. He needed the PO to concentrate.

“Oh shit.” Conner’s face tightened and paled.

“What is it?”

“This is my daughter, Jamie.” Conner clenched his fists. “How did that bastard get her picture?”

Jackson’s brain was too busy making connections to respond. Bodehammer had Jamie’s photo. Jamie was Raina’s best friend/lover, and Raina was Bodehammer’s third victim. Were Bodehammer and Jamie Conner acquainted, or had his suspect been stalking both young women? Jackson felt the tight fist of dread in his chest. Was Jamie Conner in mortal danger? “I’d like to talk to Jamie immediately. Will you call her right now?”

Conner’s expression morphed from anger into worry. He reached for his cell phone and pressed a speed dial button. As he waited for his daughter to pick up, Conner closed his eyes. Jackson thought he might be praying.

After a moment, Conner left a message, “Jamie, it’s Dad. Call me immediately. This is important.”

Jackson gave him a moment, then asked, “When was the last time you saw Jamie?”

Conner’s face crumbled. “Oh Christ. Don’t even think that.”

Jackson waited.

Finally, Conner said, “Saturday morning. She left to go stay with her friend Paul. But I talked to her Sunday morning. Yesterday morning.”

“Call Paul.”

“I don’t have his number.” Conner stared at his phone as if it had the answers. “But I’m sure my wife does.” He pushed another speed dial number and waited. “Beth. What’s Paul’s number?” A pause. “Nothing is going on. I just need to talk to Jamie, and I thought I’d try Paul.” Another pause. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

After a minute, Conner hung up and reported, “Beth hasn’t talked to Jamie since yesterday either. And she’s called her several times today. It’s not like Jamie not to return her mother’s calls. I’m officially worried.”

Jackson started to ask about Paul’s number, but Conner was already dialing. The PO left Paul a brief message. “This is Ted Conner. I need to talk to you about Jamie right away. Please call.”

The two men sat for a moment in silence. Jackson felt sorry for Conner. He knew how panicked he’d be if he thought his daughter Katie was missing. It made his heart hurt just to think about it. He tried to come up with something comforting to say. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. She’s an adult and she’s probably just busy or distracted. I’ll put out a BOLO for her just in case.”

“Thanks.” Conner’s eyes were busy, and Jackson wondered what he was thinking.

“I’ll keep searching for Bodehammer. Call me if you think of anything that could help.”

Conner reached for his file cabinet. “I’ll look back through every scrap of paper I have on Bodehammer. There’s got to be something there.”

“We’ll find them both.” Jackson stood to leave. He would have shaken Conner’s hand, but the PO’s attention was buried in a file.

In the car, Jackson checked his phone for messages. He was hoping to hear from Evans that she had tracked down Bodehammer’s family. Instead he heard from Sophie Speranza. Something in her voice caught his attention. Was it anxiety? He listened to her message: “Jackson, it’s Sophie. I have important information. Please call me.”

Jackson pressed the ‘return call’ option. Sophie picked up immediately. “Detective Jackson, I’m so glad to hear from you.”

“What information do you have?”

“The victims all took a workshop from a poet named Michelle Peterson. She lives at 2031 Alder Street. I’m here now talking to her.”

Jackson’s heart pounded with mixed emotions. Was this the break he desperately needed?
How in the hell had a young reporter beat him to this lead
?

“I’m on my way.”

As Jackson hurried across the downtown area, he nearly hit a homeless man who suddenly bolted across Olive Street on a stolen bike. Jackson braked and held his tongue. Something had to be done about Eugene’s downtown. The area was crawling with drug dealers, transients, and runaway teenagers. As he passed Eugene’s gorgeous new library, a throng of tattooed, pierced, and scruffy young people sprawled on the sidewalk around the brick building. The bus station across the street brought them here and dumped them off to hang out. As darkness fell, they would soon be on the move, looking for a meal and a place to sleep. It was safer downtown at night than in broad daylight.

Jackson swore at the slow moving clog of cars heading home from work on Amazon Parkway. He could feel his chest tightening again and forced himself to breathe deeply. He was still fully agitated when he arrived at the twentieth block of Alder Street. The neighborhood was technically in south Eugene, but it was in the flatlands and the homes were older one-story buildings. Jackson slowed to a crawl, looking for house numbers. The area was not well lit either.

In a few minutes he found the address on one side of a small duplex. He parked behind a Scion and wondered if the car belonged to Sophie. She seemed like the carbon-footprint-conscious type. He jogged up the sidewalk, again wondering how Sophie had found this connection. Would it lead to Bodehammer?

A large woman with a distressed look and gin on her breath opened the door. “Detective Jackson?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Michelle Peterson.” She shook his hand, then led him into the living room. “I assume you know Sophie Speranza.”

Jackson nodded. He had seen Sophie briefly once at a bit of a distance, but they had never been face to face in a room before. All of their conversations had taken place on the phone. He was surprised at her attractiveness—and her professional appearance. He had thought she would be more subculture, a tattoo or piercing or at least the jeans and T-shirt type. Instead she was neatly dressed in a skirt and blouse. Sophie stood and offered her hand. Jackson shook it, deciding that he would put aside the past and forget she and a photographer had ambushed him while he was bringing in the handcuffed mayor and their front-page story had nearly ruined his career.