Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (13 page)

She reached for her scalpel. “Ready?”

Twenty minutes later, Jackson finally had a cause of death: asphyxiation, or lack of oxygen to the brain.

“Considering the fibers in her nose, it’s most likely she suffocated,” Ainsworth said.

“Suffocated? Or was suffocated?” The distinction was critical.

“I’m not certain yet. Very few people over the age of five suffocate accidentally. It does happen, but it’s not common.”

“Are you ruling it a homicide?”

“Don’t rush me. Of course, you should treat it as such for now, but I can’t make a final determination until I see the lab results.”

“When do I get them?”

“We’ll prioritize. That’s all I can promise.”

Jackson could feel a serious headache coming on. Very little sleep, too much caffeine, and now a squishy death ruling. It was obvious that this was not the work of a stranger rapist. But still, sometime after consensual sex, the girl had been suffocated and dumped in the trash.

On the way out of the autopsy, Jackson called the Lane County jail and asked to speak to the nurse.

“Detective Jackson here. I need you to check Oscar Grady for genital warts. He’s in C-block on an investigative hold.”

“Do you want just a visual check or should I get a blood sample?”

“Both please.”

Halfway down the Willamette Valley corridor on Interstate 5, a connection occurred to him. Where would a young girl get liquid nitrogen treatment for genital warts? She couldn’t go to her family doctor without her mother finding out. Either Judy Davenport knew about Jessie’s sex life or the girl had gone somewhere like a Planned Parenthood clinic.

Thursday, October 21, 12:35 p.m.

Cranston was in court for the day, so Jackson went down the hall to Judge Marlee Volcansek. She was a lifelong Democrat, a member of the ACLU, and not fond of small talk. Jackson was not optimistic.

The judge looked up from her computer without smiling. “What can I do for you, Detective Jackson?” Her razor-straight black hair was pulled back from a face that could have been thirty-eight or fifty-eight; the Botox made it impossible to tell. Without the robe, she seemed smaller than he remembered from court.

“I just witnessed the autopsy of Jessie Davenport, a young girl who was found dead in a dumpster. The medical examiner says Jessie was recently treated for genital warts. I need to confirm that with medical records.” Jackson presented the search warrant he’d crafted.

The judge didn’t even look at it. “How exactly is this relevant to finding her killer?” Her dark eyebrows arched even higher.

“If we can prove she had genital warts, and later, if we arrest someone who also has the disease, it’s one more connection.”

“Circumstantial evidence at best. Not good enough.”

“The clinic may also have a record of the girl’s sexual partners.”

“And if it does?”

“One out of three female homicide victims is killed by someone they’ve had sex with.”

Volcansek gave that some thought, then said, “Can’t you find out who she’s slept with by simply interviewing her friends and family?”

“Not this time. Everyone says Jessie didn’t have a boyfriend, that she was a good Christian girl. But the autopsy says she was sexually active. So either they’re all lying to me or Jessie was very secretive about this guy. I have to find him. And connect her to him. This is the only way I have.”

The judge shook her head. “I don’t want to set a precedent. With medical records, there’s the overriding issue of protecting the patient’s privacy.” Her argument lacked passion.

“She’s dead,” Jackson reminded her. “Jessie’s privacy is less important than bringing her justice.”

Volcansek pressed her lips together. She scanned the paperwork. Finally, she made a small notation, then signed the document.

“This is a very limited search. You can access only the parts of her file that refer to the recent treatment of genital warts and any record of her partners’ names. You will not go browsing around in personal medical information that is irrelevant.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Jackson thought about stopping for lunch on the way over to the clinic, but he was too keyed up. The heavy noon traffic on West 11th nearly drove him crazy. He needed a break in this case. Now. And he needed the old people in the car in front of him to get the hell out of his way.

By the time he reached Commerce Street, his heart was pounding with anxiety and caffeine overload. He had to settle himself down before entering the clinic or he would scare someone. Jackson stepped out of the car and paused for a moment to watch the construction workers rebuilding the wall around the clinic’s front window. Then he strode into the foyer, flashed his badge to the receptionist, and marched down to Sheila Brentwood’s office. The door was open, so he stepped in without knocking. The director had a deli sandwich in her hands.

“Ms. Brentwood. I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I’m investigating the death of Jessie Davenport.” Jackson handed her the paperwork. “I have a search warrant that entitles me to see the record of Jessie’s last visit here.”

Sheila’s shoulders sagged. “What makes you certain she was a client here?”

“I’m guessing. Now you can either bring me that particular paperwork or let me search for it.”

“Please wait here.”

Brentwood moved quickly, giving him a look as she went.

Six minutes later, she was back. “I made a copy of the chart for her visit on Tuesday, October 19.” She passed him a single sheet of paper. “She was treated with liquid nitrogen for genital warts and offered birth control. She left without the birth control and without paying for the service.”

Jackson looked up from the file. “I thought you guys were free.”

Sheila stifled a sigh. “We offer services on a sliding scale. We do not refuse services to anyone for lack of money. But we bill everyone and hope that they pay. It costs money to run this place.”

“Of course. Uh, I don’t see a reference to her sexual partners.”

“There isn’t one. We don’t ask for names.”

“Even with sexually transmitted diseases?”

“No. The county requires us to report cases of chlamydia and gonorrhea, which are bacterial infections. County health agencies then sometimes contact those patients and request partner names if they think it’s part of a major outbreak.”

“But you don’t get partner names?”

“No.”

Jackson’s energy deflated. He itched to peruse Jessie’s entire file, but his search warrant didn’t give him permission, and he knew there was no point in asking.

“Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You’re welcome.”

After leaving the clinic, Jackson drove across the street to the Mongolian Grill. He figured he had time for one trip through the pick-your-own-stir-fry line. Sizzling meat smells greeted him at the door and made his empty stomach growl. He loved everything about this place except the mustard yellow walls.

In compliance with his doctor’s orders to cut back on fat, he loaded up on noodles and chicken and threw in just enough mushrooms and onions to satisfy the vegetable police. A few minutes later, cooked food in hand, he headed for his table. On the way, he spotted Kera Kollmorgan, the nurse who’d taken a fall the day of the bombing, sitting at a window table by herself. He wondered if—outside the clinic—she would loosen up and give him some information he could use.

Jackson stepped over to her table. “Hello. Kera, right?”

“Yes. Hello, Officer Jackson.” She gave him a warm smile.

Encouraged, Jackson said, “How are you holding up? I mean, after the bomb.”

Reflexively, she reached up and touched the small abrasion on her forehead. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

A moment of silence.

“Would you like to join me? Your food’s getting cold.”

Jackson shrugged. “Sure. Thanks.” He slipped into the chair across from her and dug into his stir-fry.

They ate in silence for a moment, Jackson gulping noodles and Kera picking slowly at vegetables.

“Are you a vegetarian?” He had to start somewhere.

“Oh no.” She laughed at the idea. “I just ate all the beef first. I’m a protein burner.”

He liked her uninhibited laugh and the way her big hazel eyes lit up. “If I worked nearby like you do, I’d probably come here every day.”

“I’m a frequent flyer, for sure. The secret is to load the bowl properly the first time—meaning meat on the bottom—so you don’t have to go back through a second time.”

“Good strategy.”

She poured both of them some tea, and he noticed a faint white line on her left hand where a wedding ring used to reside.

“Detective Quince was asking questions at the clinic yesterday, and now you’re here today,” she commented. “Are you still investigating the bombing?”

“No. A homicide occurred, and that’s my main jurisdiction.”

“Jessie Davenport?” She put down her fork.

“Yes. Do you know her?”

“I’ve seen the news stories.”

“Your initials were on her chart. You treated her for genital warts.”

Kera leaned back. “So that’s why you were at the clinic. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Not exactly. I still want to know who her sex partner was.”

“Do you think he killed her?” Her eyes were intense, but Jackson didn’t sense that she was angry with him.

“He’s our number-one suspect, until we learn otherwise.”

“Any leads?”

“I couldn’t tell you if I did have one.”

She pushed her plate away, and Jackson dug back into his. In a minute, he would probe some more. He could tell she wanted to help. He just had to earn her trust. And he thought he knew how. “My daughter Katie loves this place,” he said between bites. “She’d be jealous if she knew I came here without her.”

He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so the mention of the daughter surprised Kera. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen. Middle school. Oh boy.” Jackson gave her a pained smile.

“It’s a tough age.” Kera didn’t want him to inquire about her child. Nor did she want to be rude and change the subject, so she asked, “How does your daughter feel about your being a police officer?”

“She’s okay with it. In fact, I think she’s kind of proud of me,” Jackson said.

Names and ages suddenly slammed together in her head. A thirteen-year-old girl named Katie Jackson was one of the students on her sex club list. Kera fought to keep the information off her face and out of her voice. “Where does Katie go to school?”

“Kincaid.”

Kera took a gulp of tea. Maybe his daughter’s last name wasn’t Jackson. Maybe it wasn’t the same girl. But she knew it had to be. Eugene was not that big. And Kincaid Middle School didn’t have two Katie Jacksons.

Oh great. Now she not only had information about a murdered girl that she couldn’t share with the detective, but she also had inside information about his daughter. Kera decided it was time to leave. She reached into her purse for her wallet and found Jessie’s cell phone instead. It occurred to her that she could give it to him now. He already knew that Jessie had been to Planned Parenthood.

She held out the phone to Jackson. “This is Jessie’s. She left it at the clinic.”

Jackson seemed stunned. Then angry. “You’ve had it since Tuesday?”

“I didn’t find it until yesterday morning,” Kera said, feeling defensive. “I planned to put it in the mail to you today, but I just now realized that I could give it to you without violating Jessie’s confidence. I mean, now that you already know she was treated at the clinic.”

His face softened, but he didn’t smile. “Thanks. This reminds me that I’m expecting a fax from the phone company, and it should be here by now. I need to get back to the department.” He looked around for his waitress.

Kera felt inexplicably sad and guilty. “I’m sorry about the delay in getting the phone to you. But we promise our clients confidentiality, and we honor that promise.”

“I understand.” He signaled the waitress to bring his check.

Kera didn’t think he really did understand. “In states where minors need a parent’s permission to get birth control, teenage pregnancy rates are nearly double what they are here.”

“I can see why.” Jackson stared at her. “Do you know who Jessie was having sex with? She may have been the victim of abuse. And he may have killed her.”

“I don’t know. We never ask our clients for that information. But I did ask her if the sex was consensual, and she insisted that it was.”

“Good. I’m glad to know you ask about that.”

Kera grabbed her purse and stood to leave. “Good luck with your investigation.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t smile.

As he drove back to the department downtown, Jackson regretted the way he’d acted. Kera was a nice woman. And he could tell by the compassion in her eyes that she cared about Jessie. About all her clients.

Nice woman. He let out a short laugh. Kera was more than nice. She was also smart and attractive and under different circumstances, he would have considered asking her out. But his divorce was still a fresh wound, his daughter was not ready for him to be a swinging single, and he had a killer to track down.