Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (28 page)

There was still a window of opportunity. Jackson asked, “Where were you at 5 p.m.?”

“I was home, probably checking my e-mail. I usually spend time on my computer after work.”

“Was anyone else at home with you?”

“No.” Michelson’s shoulders slumped.

There was a brief knock on the door. One of the desk officers stepped in, followed by an older woman in a beige pantsuit. “This is Vera Thornton. She’s here for Mr. Michelson.”

Jackson introduced himself and Quince as everyone shook hands. The lawyer’s grip surprised him. Vera Thornton looked old enough to be retired, but her whole persona reminded Jackson of a sixth grade teacher who used to make him shake with fear. “Why did you start without me?” Thornton demanded, as she took a seat next to her client.

“I’m in a hurry,” Jackson responded. “Young women are being raped and murdered and I need to find out—right now—who’s doing it. Your client has decided it’s in his best interest to answer our questions.”

Irritation seemed to be her natural expression. “What have you discussed so far?”

“The time frame of 5 to 9 p.m., February 13. Mr. Michelson claims to have been dining with friends, except for the period between five and six o’clock, which he has no verifiable alibi for.”

“Why is my client even a suspect? He’s a well-respected member of the academic community and has absolutely no criminal history.”

Jackson was suddenly impatient. “We don’t have to tell you why we suspect him. And I plan to continue questioning Mr. Michelson.” He turned back to the professor. “Tell me about your relationship with Amy Hastings.”

“Who is Amy Hastings?”

“You have no idea?”

Michelson’s eyes calculated the possibilities. “I assume you think I know her, so she must have been a student in one of my classes. I’ve taught hundreds of students. I remember very few names for any length of time. Her name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“You resigned from your job last week, accused of having sex with one of your students. How many of your students did you sleep with over the years?”

Vera Thornton rapped the table. “Do not answer that!”

Quince spoke up. “I talked to people on campus. You have a reputation for getting ‘close’ to certain female students. Who exactly is your type?”

“My client will not answer any non-specific questions. Stick to names and dates or I’ll terminate this conversation.”

“How well did you know Keesha Williams?” Jackson asked.

Michelson signaled a little distress. “I remember her because she is a talented writer, and I encouraged her to pursue a career in literary arts. Has something happened to Keesha?”

Jackson wondered for a second if Michelson was acting. The professor’s reactions seemed a little too well constructed. Jackson decided to test him. “Keesha is fine and working as a school teacher in Springfield.”

Michelson didn’t react to the misinformation. Either he had a great poker face or didn’t know anything about Keesha Williams’ current life. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope she’s teaching writing.”

“When was the last time you saw Keesha?”

“I’m not sure. I think she was at LCC the year before last. And I think she was in my class spring term.”

“Do you remember when Raina Hughes took your class?”

Michelson shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t.”

“When was the last time you saw Raina?”

“I don’t know who she is.”

“What about Niki Blackwell?”

Michelson shook his head again but showed no reaction to the false name. Jackson realized he would probably not be able to trick or intimidate this suspect into giving him anything. “Would you consent to a DNA analysis?”

“No.” His lawyer spoke for him.

Jackson ignored her and kept his eyes on Michelson. “If you’re innocent, your DNA will clear you of all suspicion. Refusing to give your DNA makes you look guilty. But we will get it with a subpoena anyway.”

“Nonsense! You have nothing to support a subpoena.” Thornton stood and turned to her client. “My advice is to terminate this conversation immediately and to keep your DNA out of the system.”

Michelson pressed his lips together, hesitated. “I’m done answering questions.”

“Suit yourself.” Jackson stood and gestured to Vera Thornton that it was time to leave. She looked unhappy about it, but complied. Jackson followed her out, with Quince behind him, leaving the professor in the interrogation room alone. In the hallway, Jackson asked Quince, “What about a subpoena for his DNA?”

“Schak is working on that now.”

“Great. Let’s hold Michelson as long as we can. Meanwhile, McCray and I will search Bodehammer’s apartment.”

Jackson reached the apartment before McCray. He knocked on Bodehammer’s door just to cover the bases. Still no response. He called McCray. “Did you get the subpoena?”

“I’m walking out of the courthouse with it now.”

“Excellent.”

Jackson decided not to wait for the paperwork or waste time tracking down a key from the manager or owner. A credit card quickly bypassed the cheap lock. He didn’t usually resort to such tactics, but Jackson had an escalating concern about Bodehammer’s location and current activities.

Nicotine residue permeated the air and stained the walls. The bitter smell made Jackson’s eyes water. The tiny living room was immaculate. No clutter, no stains on the carpet, no cigarette butts in the ashtray. The room was spartan, with only a couch, TV, and stereo. A guitar case leaned against a short bare wall. His gut said the sparseness wasn’t a good sign. How could he riffle through the paperwork if there was no paper?

Nothing under the couch and nothing under its cushions. This level of clean was not normal. Beyond the couch, there wasn’t much to search in the living room. Jackson flipped through the CD collection but didn’t find any disks that looked home burned or as if they might contain anything but music files.

McCray walked through the open door. “I see you found the spare key,” he said, gesturing toward the broken chain hanging from the latch.

“People leave them in the most obvious places.”

“What have you covered so far?”

“This room. Took all of five minutes. Now I’m headed for the bedroom.”

“The subpoena is fairly narrow, but so is this apartment.” McCray shrugged. “I’ll search the kitchen and bathroom.”

The bedroom was as neat as the living room, including a tightly made bed. Jackson’s first thought was
military
, but Bodehammer’s file didn’t mention the service. He wondered if the neatness was a symptom of his bipolar disorder. Excessive cleaning when he was in a manic mode. Or maybe Bodehammer’s father had been a neat freak. It certainly made searching easier. A heavy curtain covered the small window, so Jackson flipped on a light. The nicotine stink was just as heavy in the bedroom, but not a cigarette butt was in sight. Like the stink of dog in a house where there was no dog.

The top of the dresser held only a plain glass jar filled with coins and a sleek black jewelry box with a few ornamental rings and a single gold chain. In the first drawer he opened, Jackson found a boxed collection of knives tucked under a pile of paired white socks. Knives of every size and configuration. Some ornate and beautiful, others homemade and crude. A knife was a weapon and parolees weren’t allowed to own weapons, but at the moment Jackson didn’t care. What he needed was information telling him where he could find Bodehammer. A Christmas card from his father’s house. An address book. A computer file. He looked up and around the bedroom. Unless it was in the tiny kitchen, Bodehammer didn’t seem to possess a computer. Internet access wasn’t cheap and for a lot of working class people who tended to move around, a computer simply wasn’t that important.

A search of the remaining drawers revealed more compulsive neatness. T-shirts folded into quarters and stacked by color: white, black, blue, and gray. Faded and worn jeans neatly stored in the next drawer. No letters, notes, cards, or memoirs of any kind. Jackson lifted a folded black sweatshirt in the bottom drawer and discovered a stack of photographs. He quickly thumbed through them. All young blond women, who were strikingly attractive. His three victims—Amy Hastings, Keesha Williams, and Raina Hughes—were not among them.

Who were these women? Ex-girlfriends? Females who Bodehammer encountered socially and was drawn to? Jackson slid the photos into a plastic evidence bag. The pictures were not specifically on the subpoena list, but they could be considered ‘evidence of stalking behavior’. A search of the closet and nightstand failed to produce a camera or any kind of paperwork. If Bodehammer had any friends or relatives, there was not a single shred of evidence indicating so. Jackson found it disturbingly odd.

He crossed the hallway and stood outside the bathroom. McCray had the cabinet above the sink open. “Any meds in there?”

“Nope. Just the basics. Toothbrush, razor, and dental floss. This guy is not into clutter.”

“I think he’s paranoid as well. There’s nothing with any personal information here. No tax records. No address book. No bills. He doesn’t even have a folder with his rental agreement.”

“It’s unusual.”

Jackson’s cell phone rang. He stepped away from the bathroom and checked the screen. Sophie Speranza. Oh joy. He did not have time for her questions right now.

“What’s the plan?” McCray wanted to know as they moved back into the living room.

“Let’s see if any other neighbors are home. I talked to the woman in unit four already, so skip her. I’ll go see his probation officer. I found some photos, and I want to see if his PO recognizes any of the women.”

“Nudies?”

Jackson gave up a little smile. “No. Just young blond pretty girls. None of our victims are in the collection though.”

“Do any of the gals in the photos
look like
any of the victims?”

“Not really.”

“Odd.” McCray stroked his chin. “So he takes pictures of one type of girl, then rapes another type.”

“The perp attacks lesbians. I think it’s a punishment.”

“Bodehammer could be frustrated because the pretty blond girls won’t have anything to do with him.”

“If Bodehammer is the guy we’re looking for.”

“Is his DNA on file for comparison?”

Jackson shook his head. He wished everyone who was ever arrested would have his DNA processed and entered into the system. Unfortunately, the technology was slow and expensive and the state lab could barely keep up with the workload from current violent cases. It occurred to Jackson that he was in Bodehammer’s house and could easily pick up a hair from the pillow or sink drain. Without a warrant specific to DNA, he could never use the sample in court, but it couldn’t hurt to have it compared. “We need a warrant for DNA.”

McCray made a scoffing noise. “I almost didn’t get the search warrant. I know I’m not up to speed yet on all three cases, but it seems we don’t have a single piece of evidence linking Bodehammer to the crimes.”

Jackson pulled the photos from his pocket for another look. “Too bad these pictures don’t have names on the back. We need to get copies made, then circulate them among the staff, including the missing persons unit. Maybe one of these women has filed a complaint about harassment or a peeping Tom. Something to throw suspicion on Bodehammer.”

“DNA warrant first?” McCray said.

“Yes. I want to run these pictures by his PO before I turn them over to you.”

Jackson checked his watch and realized it was nearly four o’clock. He’d have to move fast to catch Ted Conner before he left the Parole and Probation office for the day. He made a quick trip back to the bedroom and picked up the flat, well-used pillow. It was covered in blond hairs. Bodehammer was a shedder, and apparently his neat freak habits didn’t include washing his pillowcase first thing every morning. The hairs were pale blond and straight and instantly reminded him of the hair the pathologist had found on Raina’s pubic area. Jackson’s heart rate picked up a little. Bodehammer was suddenly a viable suspect. Was he finally tracking the real killer? Gorman had looked so open-and-shut and had wasted so much of his time. The bastard would still do a few months for obstructing justice. Jackson put three of the blond hairs into a small plastic envelope, tucked it into his crime scene bag, and headed out into the fresh air.