Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (6 page)

Jackson fought to keep his cool. “A detective is standing in a dumpster right now looking for your daughter’s clothes, in case those clothes have evidence on them that can help us. I’d like to tell him exactly what he’s looking for.”

She pressed her lips together, looking chagrined, then said, “A denim skirt and a pink and blue striped pullover.”

“What about shoes or a backpack?”

“I don’t know about the shoes, but she always carried a backpack. This year it was one of those clear plastic ones. I only saw her briefly before I left for work. I had an early shift at the nursing home this morning.”

Jackson used his cell phone to relay the information to Schakowski, who had not found anything yet. Mrs. Davenport went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water for herself. Jackson had more questions.

“Did Jessie have any plans to go somewhere after school today?”

“She had Teen Talk.”

“What’s that?”

“A group of Christian kids who get together after school once a week.” This was new to Jackson. He didn’t remember the activity from when Katie and Jessie had been friends.

“Where do they meet and what do they do?”

“It’s a Bible study. They meet at Angel’s. She has a big rec room with a pool table.”

“Angel Strickland?” When Katie had been friends with Jessie, Angel’s name had come up a few times. Jackson may have met her once but couldn’t remember for sure. He often got Katie’s friends mixed up.

Mrs. Davenport nodded.

Jackson asked, “Do you know if Jessie was at Angel’s today?”

“She would have called me if she went anywhere else.”

“Did she carry a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

Jackson made a note to subpoena the records. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

The mother scowled. “Of course not. She’s only thirteen. Well, almost fourteen.” Davenport began to cry again. Through sobs, she choked out, “Her birthday is next week.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to harm Jessie?” If Jessie had been an adult victim, he would have asked that first.

“No. Of course not.”

“Do you have a current photo?”

“I’ve got her school photo from last year.” Mrs. Davenport pulled a tissue from her smock and wiped at her face.

“I’d like to release Jessie’s name and photo to the media and ask for the public’s help.”

She nodded and pulled herself off the couch.

Jackson asked if he could see Jessie’s room. Davenport hesitated, then sighed and led him down a short hallway, her too-tight jeans rubbing noisily. She opened the door at the end and stepped back to let him pass. Behind him, Jackson felt her move into place in the doorway, intent on keeping watch over Jessie’s things.

Pale apricot walls, topped with fringed shawls hanging from the corners gave the room a cocoon fairytale feel. Posters of clean-cut boy bands lined the wall behind the bed, which was topped with an orange and white comforter that reminded him of the Fruit Striped gum he’d chewed as a kid. The furniture was a mixed assortment: the wooden desk looked old and scarred, as if it had been purchased secondhand, but the white bed frame looked new and possibly expensive. A pile of clothes and shoes had been pushed up against the closed closet, and a small painting of Jesus hung above the desk. Jackson didn’t remember Jessie being religious. But the truth was, they hadn’t chatted much.

From his bag, he removed his camera and took several photos of the general layout. Then he pulled on some gloves and began to search her dresser. Nothing of great interest, except a collection of panties that filled a whole drawer. Did all young girls have this much underwear? Jackson rifled through her desk drawers next, finding old homework reports, religious booklets, and a few innocuous notes addressed to Jess and signed May-May. He put the notes in a brown paper evidence bag.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Judy Davenport rushed into the room.

“Collecting evidence. Please step back and let me do my job.”

“You’re not taking anything out of here.” Judy Davenport was on the verge of tears again.

Jackson’s heart went out to the woman. “Why don’t you go call someone to come over and stay with you?”

“I’m not leaving you in here alone.”

Time to switch tactics. “Is there a computer in the house?” He was surprised that Jessie’s room didn’t have one. According to Katie, every kid in her school had their own computer, cell phone, and television.

“Not any more. It was just a portal to pornography and violence and a multitude of other evil influences.”

“Didn’t Jessie need a computer for school work sometimes?”

“They have computers at the school, at the library, at Starbucks. All her friends have one. Jessie didn’t need one of her own.”

Back to square one. Jackson moved over to the bed and lifted a corner of the mattress.

“What are you doing now?”

“Looking for a diary.”

Jackson spotted a book in the center of the box springs and pulled it free. The paperback was titled Road Trip, and the cover sported a naked couple on a motorcycle. Mrs. Davenport grabbed it out of his hands. Then she gasped and dropped it like it was a snake. Clearly, she had not known her daughter all that well, and Jessie had been a conflicted young girl.

Wednesday, October 20, 6:10 a.m.

Kera heated water in the microwave, then poured it over her freshly ground coffee. While it seeped into the cup, she stepped outside to get the newspaper. Even though most afternoons were still warm and sunny, mornings now were dark and cold. Knowing the season could change abruptly, Kera decided it was time to dig her winter clothes out of the back of the bedroom closet just to be prepared.

Coffee and paper in hand, she sat down at the kitchen table and glanced at the headlines. A photo of the bombed clinic took up half the front page. Eugene had never experienced anything like this before, and the photo alone would sell out news stands. Trina Waterman of KRSL had broken the story last night, and the newspaper account didn’t add much detail, except to speculate about the bomber’s possible motives.

Kera got up to scramble eggs and turned on the small TV she kept in the kitchen to catch some national news. As she opened the refrigerator, the KRSL morning anchor—a big man named Thaddeus Brown— announced a “breaking story.” Kera turned to the TV, stunned by the news that followed:

“The body of 13-year-old Jessie Davenport, a student at Kincaid Middle School, was found in a dumpster late yesterday afternoon behind the Regency Apartments in South Eugene. The police have not released any information about the crime but have asked for the public’s help. If you saw Jessie Davenport yesterday or saw anything suspicious near the Regency Apartments at 17th and Patterson, please call 686-0505.”

They cut to a picture of Jessie, looking younger and happier than she had yesterday, then showed the Regency complex, then cut to a gray dumpster surrounded by yellow crime tape.
“We will have more on this story at six.”

Kera sank back into her chair. The girl she had treated in the clinic yesterday—who had e-mailed her immediately afterward—had been killed and dumped like trash. The coffee soured in her stomach, and the little tremor she had been experiencing in her hands came back.

Kera laid her forehead against the cool rosewood table. Why was this world so messed up? Why did so many young people have to die? First Nathan, now Jessie. Even though she hadn’t really known Jessie, the girl had reached out to her. Jessie’s death felt like another loss, a personal failure. Kera breathed deeply into her abdomen and emptied her mind. She could not afford another layer of grief and guilt. She had to function. She had a job to do, people who counted on her.

In a few minutes, she forced herself to get up, brush her teeth, and dress for work. As she grabbed a container of yogurt for her lunch, Kera thought she heard a faint musical sound. But her cell phone was right there on the kitchen counter, quiet as usual. She heard the sound again. Kera followed the tone into the living room and realized it was coming from the front closet. Puzzled, she opened the closet door. The next ring was much louder. She reached for the sweater she’d worn yesterday and pulled a pink cell phone out of the pocket.

In a flash, she remembered that she had picked up Jessie’s phone from the exam table and tried to return it to her. Kera had no idea how it ended up in her pocket. It had been in her hand when she fell. Perhaps one of her co-workers thought it was hers and put it in her pocket. Or maybe she had done it herself. Her memory of the events right before and after the explosion was fuzzy.

But who would be calling Jessie’s phone now? Someone who didn’t know she was dead? What if the police were calling the phone trying to locate it?

Kera flipped it open. “Hello.”

“Who is this?” The young girl on the other end sounded surprised and confused. “Where’s Jessie?”

Kera mentally kicked herself for answering the phone. “My name’s Kera. I found this phone yesterday after Jessie dropped it.” This is so awkward. “I tried to get the phone back to Jessie, then a series of unexpected events prevented me from doing so.” She could not even mention the clinic without violating Jessie’s privacy.

“Hmm. I guess I’ll call Jessie at home. Should I tell her you have her phone?”

“You can’t call her at home.” Kera struggled for the right thing to say. “What’s your name?”

“Nicole.”

The friend Jessie had mentioned during her appointment? “Nicole, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you. Another unexpected thing that happened yesterday is that Jessie…Jessie is dead.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. I just heard it on the news this morning.”

“Oh my God.”

Kera winced. The girl was not taking it well. “I’m very sorry to tell you like this over the phone, Nicole. Is there someone there who can comfort you?”

“I knew God would punish us! I knew it. We’re all going to hell.” Nicole hung up.

On the drive to work, Kera became painfully aware of the difficult position she was in. The police wanted to know where Jessie had been yesterday. Under any other circumstances, Kera would have gladly cooperated with an investigation. But she worked for Planned Parenthood, and Jessie had come in for STD treatment. That information was strictly confidential. Kera could not reveal it to anyone, even the police. And she could not turn the phone over to the police without indirectly revealing that Jessie had come into the clinic. Unless she lied about where she found it, and Kera could not do that. Maybe she should mail the phone to the department anonymously.

What if Jessie’s clinic appointment was important to the investigation? What if knowing that piece of information would help the police find her killer?

Kera was so preoccupied, she missed her turn off Chambers. Damn. Now she would be a few minutes late. Nobody at the clinic would care, but it bothered her. She made a risky left turn against traffic and whipped around in a QuickMart parking lot. Back on the road, she tried to reason her way through the dilemma. How could Jessie’s appointment be related to her death? It seemed unlikely that a stalker or serial killer had followed the girl from the clinic.

Oh shit. Maybe they had. Jessie had been in the clinic at the time of the explosion. What if the bomber was also a psychopath? Kera’s heart raced at the thought. In the greater scheme of things, keeping Jessie’s confidence might not be the right thing to do. By the time Kera parked her Saturn at the clinic, she was deeply troubled.

Seeing the plywood boarding up the clinic’s front window made her chest muscles tighten. Some of her co-workers might not show up at all today. Kera wouldn’t blame them for that.

Roselyn buzzed her in and greeted her with a cheerful “Good morning.” Roselyn’s chunky cheeks bunched up in a bright smile, and Kera was glad to see their young receptionist was still her usual upbeat self.

“Hi Rosie. You seem to be taking this whole thing pretty well.”

“I grew up in Compton.” Rosie waved it away. “That little pipe bomb was nothing.”

Kera smiled. “It’s good to keep your perspective.”

“Staff meeting at 7:45 sharp,” the receptionist called after her as she walked back to the break room. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the small space. After hanging her purse and sweater in her locker, Kera poured herself a cup, knowing the freeze-dried taste would disappoint her. It didn’t matter. Holding a cup of coffee was comforting, even if she only sipped it.

She checked for morning appointments on the computer in the shared office next to the break room. Nothing for her until 8:30. Kera wandered into the windowless meeting room, where Andrea was busy reading charts.

The manager looked up. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Sure.”

When the day’s staff of ten had assembled—minus only one lab assistant who’d called in sick—the clinic director gave a short speech about how important it was to maintain a business-as-usual attitude.

“Naturally, our clients will ask us about what happened yesterday,” Sheila said. “But let’s keep those conversations short. I’ve hired a security guard, for now. It’s not in the budget, and we’ll have to make cuts somewhere down the line, but I think it’s necessary. Are there any questions or comments?”