Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (13 page)

Jamie was relieved and mortified at the same time. Could it possibly be true? How could it help anyone for her to admit she was a lesbian? She and Raina didn’t belong to any political groups, and they hadn’t been active in any of the local efforts to push for gay rights. Jamie almost choked on the thought. Wouldn’t that have been crazy—her campaigning for gay people’s right to marry while her parents signed petitions that tried to deny those rights?

Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Jamie, why was the detective asking about lesbians?” Beth Conner entered the living room, looking prim and puzzled, a housewife who designed and sold quilt patterns to earn a little spending money.

“It didn’t have anything to do with Raina,” Jamie said, casually tossing off another lie. “There were some rapes last month, and the cops think they might have been hate crimes. But there’s no connection.”

“What do you mean by ‘hate crime’?”

“Never mind. It’s just an expression.” Jamie started for her bedroom, then turned back and said, “I’m going over to Paul’s for a while.”

Her mother looked distressed. “I wish you wouldn’t. It doesn’t look right for you to stay with a young man, even if he lives with his sister. And I really want to talk to you. I found a college in Northern California that I think you’ll like.”

“Not today, Mom. My best friend is dead, and I need some time.”

As she packed a gym bag with enough clothes for a few days, Jamie’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, so she didn’t pick up. A few minutes later, she listened to the voice message. A woman with a seductive voice said, “This is Sophie Speranza with the
Willamette News
. I’m doing a story that profiles female crime victims, and I’d like to talk to you about your girlfriend, Raina Hughes. This is an important story, and I hope you’ll call me back. My number is 337-9821.”

Oh dear God
. Jamie began to shake. How did a reporter learn that Raina was her girlfriend? And how could she keep the information from her parents if it ended up in the newspaper?

Disappointed but not discouraged, Sophie called Keesha Williams and waited while the phone rang again and again. From her little office space—more like a half-cube—in the big new building, she had a partial view of the new freeway overpass. Yippee. Sophie looked down at her list of calls.

She’d started with Amy Hastings, who had just moved to Seattle. Amy declined to talk about her experience. Sophie had tried to convince Amy that her mission as a reporter was not to focus on the actual rape but more on the victims’ experiences as lesbians in the Eugene community, but Amy had said no anyway. Then she’d called Jamie Conner, who was rumored to be Raina Hughes’ girlfriend. When her source in the public safety department had given her the news of Raina’s murder, it had been the final piece that made Sophie realize the attacker was targeting lesbians. She believed she had an obligation to not only inform the public so women could protect themselves, but to enlighten the community as well.

Suddenly, Keesha was on the line. “Hello.”

“Keesha Williams?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Sophie Speranza with the
Willamette News
. I’m working on a feature story about crimes against lesbians here in Eugene. I’d really like to talk to you. I’ll keep your name confidential if you like.”

“How did you get my name?” Keesha sounded a little disturbed. “The police don’t release rape victims’ names.”

“You’re right, they don’t. But the lesbian community in this town is tightly connected. My friends know your friends. The rest of Eugene may not know the serial rapist is targeting lesbians, but some of my friends know and they’re worried for themselves. Especially now that Raina Hughes was murdered.”

Keesha sucked in her breath. “I saw that story in the paper. It didn’t say she was raped.”

“She was. I have a reliable source who confirmed the rape. I don’t think the police detectives have put all the cases together yet, but they will. They’re slow, but not entirely stupid.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I just want to hear your story. What it’s like for you to be a lesbian here in Eugene and how it compares to other towns you lived in. I’ll give you a pseudonym. It can be completely confidential.”

“I don’t know.” Keesha hesitated. “Why should I?”

“Because your sisters are being targeted and they’re scared. Because the more we expose the ugliness of homophobic hatred, the less acceptable it becomes.” Sophie knew it was a lot of responsibility to put on the shoulders of a rape victim. She had a flicker of guilt. Yet someone had to tell this story.

“You’re one of us?”

“Actually, I’m bisexual, so I’m a bigger outcast than anyone in the gay community. But I date mostly women. Do you know Ashley McCormick? I dated her for a year. We almost moved in together.”

“Let me think about it.”

“All right. Call me.”

Sophie hit speed-dial #9, but got kicked into voice mail after three rings. Jackson now recognized her number and always screened her calls. Sophie left him a message. “Don’t delete me, I have a tip for you. I know you’re not too crazy about me after the front page Mayor Fieldstone photograph, but I want to make it up to you, so we can have a friendly relationship. So here it is: Amy Hastings, Keesha Williams, and Raina Hughes are all lesbians. These were hate crimes, and you should be looking for somebody with a grudge against gay women. Call me.”

Jackson hurried across the sky bridge, then took the elevator to the basement of North McKenzie Hospital. He was late for Raina’s autopsy, which had started at 9 a.m. in a bleak room euphemistically known as
Surgery 10
. After hearing his suspect’s preposterous story, he’d left the jail with a promise that he’d be back in a couple of hours so Gorman could try again. The crazy shit that criminals expected law enforcement to believe. Sometimes it amused him. Not today. Raina had been dead for nearly three days, the trail was growing cold, and if Gorman stuck to the horseshit story he’d just told, they might never convict anyone of the crime.

This would be his third autopsy here at the hospital. Eugene had finally hired its own pathologist, so Jackson no longer had to drive to Portland. He missed working with Hillary Ainsworth at the state pathology lab, but he didn’t miss the hundred-mile drive and the wasted time.

The narrow room had pale yellow walls, stainless steel cabinets, and harsh lighting. Disinfectant failed to cover the faint stink of decay. Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner who managed the morgue and assisted with autopsies, scowled as Jackson pushed through the door, pulling a plastic gown over his suede jacket and black jeans. “Sorry I’m late. An interview with a suspect went long.”

The new pathologist glanced up, nodded, then went back to his task of opening up Raina’s sternum. Rudolf Konrad was forty-something, but his well-padded face and full head of hair made him look young. Jackson had not yet seen him smile. Of course, Konrad cut open dead people for a living.

“I’ve already completed the external examination,” Konrad said as Jackson stepped up to the table. “You’ll get a full report, but the preliminary analysis revealed little of significance.” He paused to finish the cut with the Stryker saw.

Jackson tuned out the sound. It was just another power tool. He tried not to see the young body in front of him as the remains of a person. At this point, he had to see Raina’s cadaver as an assortment of evidence that would help him catch her killer.

Konrad continued, “I found a hair in her pubis that at first glance does not appear to match the deceased’s dark hair. The extraneous hair is light blond and straight. It’s in a bag over there on the table if you’d like to examine it.”

Jackson felt a surge of excitement as he stepped over to the table and its collection of little translucent paper bags. He opened the container and stared at the half-inch length of bright blond hair. Who did this trace evidence belong to? Gorman was dirty blond, with fine hair that was thinning on top. Could this hair have come from Gorman’s pubic area? But it didn’t curl like pubic hair. “We need to get a DNA analysis on this strand of hair immediately.”

“Of course.”

“What can you tell me about the sexual assault?”

Konrad gave him a look. “If you’d been here on time, I wouldn’t have to backtrack. Maybe you should just wait and read the report.”

“Fair enough.”

Konrad used his gloved fingers to separate the tissue he’d cut through, preparing to lift it out of the way. After a moment he said, “The assailant used a smooth object to penetrate her vagina. It was most likely the vibrator found in the car. The assault was aggressive, and there is minor tearing around the vaginal opening. But the blood on her legs came from her hymen, which was ruptured in the assault.”

It took Jackson a moment to process the word
hymen
and what it meant. “You’re saying she was a virgin.”

“That term has no meaning. But yes, this young woman had not been vaginally penetrated before this sexual assault.”

Jackson wondered again if Raina had been gay.

“Beyond that single piece of trace evidence, there’s nothing much worth noting. No defense wounds, no significant bruising, nothing under the fingernails.”

“Any semen?”

“No.”

Had Gorman learned to use a condom properly or had he become impotent? “What about the head wound? Do you know what killed her?”

“I’m not there yet.”

“Can we do the wound now? I may not be able to stay for the whole autopsy.”

A flicker of irritation flashed on Konrad’s face. “We can.” He stepped sideways and peered over his glasses at the nasty dent next to Raina’s right temple. Konrad took some measurements and mumbled to himself. After a lengthy pause he said, “This contusion was likely created by a series of blows. It looks very similar to a case I had last year in which the attacker admitted slamming the victim’s head into a brick wall.” Jackson glanced at the wound, then turned back to the pathologist’s face. Konrad continued. “But there’s also a narrower, deeper section that appears to have been struck by a heavy object with a rounded edge. Perhaps a large pipe or flashlight.”

Gorman had mentioned a flashlight in his crazy story. “How many blows?”

“Two or three on the flat surface and one with the heavy object. I’ll return to the torso now.” Konrad took a half step left. He grabbed the Y-shaped flap of skin he’d cut loose from her chest and flipped it up over Raina’s face. The flap made a loud, sucking sound. Jackson jumped a little, even though he’d experienced it before. The smell of decaying organs filled his nostrils. He decided to clear out as soon as he could.

For twenty minutes he waited and listened as the pathologist examined the contents of her stomach and took tissue samples of each organ. Konrad spoke into a recorder as he weighed and measured. Jackson was about to leave when Konrad said, “This is interesting.”

Jackson glanced at the displayed internal tissue. “What?”

“Her liver shows small signs of toxicity.”

“Alcohol abuse?”

“No, it’s not sclerosis. I think the blood and hair analysis will show that this young woman was a narcotics user.”

Sitting in his car in the parking garage next to the hospital, Jackson checked his cell phone and saw he’d missed a call. Sophie Speranza. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? He had no intention of listening to her bullshit or answering her questions. He needed to delete the message for space, so he dialed voice mail with the intention of pressing number seven as soon as her voice came on. Her opening words caught his attention and he listened to her brief message: “I have a tip for you. Amy Hastings, Keesha Williams, and Raina Hughes are all lesbians. These were hate crimes, and you should be looking for somebody with a grudge against gay women. Call me.”

Stunned, Jackson sat for a moment staring at the phone. How did she know the victims were gay? What else did she know? He started to press the call back button, then stopped. He had sworn he would never speak to Sophie again. If he opened this door, the reporter would walk through it whenever she damn well pleased.
Shit
. He needed to know if the victims had a social connection. More lives were at stake.
Shit
.

He pressed call, then ground his teeth while he waited for Sophie to pick up.