Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (15 page)

Gorman stood, seeming relieved. “Can I get that soda?”

Evans, Schakowski, Parker, and two patrol units were already at the scene when Jackson drove up. He saw the area in broad daylight for the first time. It had a quaint, surreal feeling—with the little white church on the corner, pastures sloping up into forested hillsides, and a llama farm down the road.

Bruce Gorman was in a sheriff’s car behind him. The permissions and paperwork involved for taking Gorman on this field trip had taken nearly thirty minutes, sorely testing Jackson’s patience. Yesterday, the sheriff’s crew at the jail had released Gorman without a second thought. Today, when he wanted him to leave jail, it had taken an act of Congress.

The five vehicles were parked along Pine Grove Road near the Gormans’ driveway. It would only be a matter of time before onlookers stopped to check out the activity. Gorman had said Raina’s car was left near the road, and Jackson had relayed the information when he’d called out this search team. They would start at this end and work back toward the house.

The group convened on the asphalt turnout, where the gravel driveway met the county road. Parker’s thin frame shivered against the cold wind. Heavy clouds threatened rain, but the ground and foliage they would cover was only damp, so far. Jackson turned to Gorman, who was handcuffed and wore only a gray sweatshirt over thin jail scrubs. “Point to where you found the body.” The inmate gestured off to the right into a grove of fir and oak trees that had been heavily harvested.

Jackson organized the search. “Sheriff Waters and I will take the area between where Raina’s car was parked and her body was allegedly located. Officers Chang and Whitstone will search the left side of the road, covering an area from the middle of the road to ten feet out. Evans, Schakowski, and Parker, I want you to fan out and search the right side of the driveway, covering an area about twenty feet wide. Start at the road and work your way back to the trailer.”

“Are we looking for something specific?” Whitstone said.

“Yes and no. I’d like to find Raina’s missing cell phone. But you’re also looking for anything that could have belonged to Raina or could be connected to her murder. If in doubt, pick it up, and we’ll sort it all out later.”

Parker added, “We’re also looking for something that may have caused a flat tire.”

Everyone pulled on latex gloves as they moved off. Jackson turned to Gorman and said, “You’d better not be wasting our time.”

Jackson, Gorman, and Sheriff Waters followed the driveway, eyes down, until Gorman said, “I think her car was parked here.”

Jackson glanced around for a sign that the Volvo had stopped in this spot. He also hoped to find a little blood. Moments later, he did. Right near his feet, a brownish red spot about a half-inch in diameter covered two little pieces of gravel. Jackson photographed the stain, then bagged and tagged the small rocks.

“What is it?” Gorman shivered in the damp air.

“Looks like blood.” Jackson had a small hope that returning to the scene would arouse Gorman’s guilt and lead to a confession. “So this is where you attacked her. After you blew out her tire, Raina stopped here and got out.” Jackson paused, remembering the blood near the top of the Volvo. “You grabbed her and slammed her head against the car. Then what happened?”

Gorman rubbed his arms. His sweatshirt wasn’t enough protection against the February air. “No. First I found her car parked here. Then I found her body over there.” He pointed with both cuffed hands into the brush.

“Show us.”

Jackson and Sheriff Waters followed Gorman, watching the ground as they stepped lightly through the dead leaves and mossy groundcover. Jackson scanned for signs indicating a body had been dragged, but saw none. They reached a small clearing in the trees, and Gorman said, “She was right there.” Brown fir needles covered the ground, with weeds poking up in places. At first glance, there was nothing to see, no indication that a young woman might have been raped and murdered in that very spot.

Jackson and Sheriff Waters got on their hands and knees and crawled around the perimeter, their faces just inches from the compost on the forest floor. In a minute, Waters said, “I think this might be blood.”

Jackson photographed the brownish red drops, then called out, “Parker?”

The lab tech jogged over from her search near the head of the driveway. “What do you have?”

“Maybe blood here on these fir needles. Preserve this as best you can when you collect it.”

Ten minutes later, Jackson spotted the cell phone on a clump of damp moss about halfway between the driveway and the clearing. The relief at finding the phone was quickly mitigated by the uneasy feeling that Gorman’s story was starting to add up. Jackson picked up the phone and flipped it open. The signal bars were weak and the battery was low. He pressed a few buttons and found the list of recent calls. Raina’s last call out had been to Jamie at 3:12 p.m. He checked
received
calls. Her last call coming in had been from a local number an hour earlier. No name was attached to the number. He would trace all the numbers when he got back to his computer.

“I found the phone,” he called out to Evans, who was nearby in her search.

“Excellent,” she called back. “I’ve got nothing so far but poison oak.”

“Keep your hands off your face.” Jackson slipped the phone into a plastic evidence bag and slid the bag into an inside pocket of his jacket. He should have felt pleased with the day’s work. They had found the primary crime scene—actually two scenes—and they had found Raina’s cell phone and likely her blood on the suspect’s property.

This case still troubled him. Why was her phone halfway between the car and the clearing? If Gorman had killed Raina, why had he taken her into the trees? Or was she still alive at that point? If the first blow had bashed her head against the top of the car, maybe she was still alive when Gorman carried her to the little clearing. Had the phone been in her hand? What had really gone down that night?

Suddenly Schak called out from an area closer to the main road, “I’ve got fresh tire marks. Someone drove back in here recently.”

Sophie wrote a short news story about the likely connection between the two rapes and the rape and murder of Raina Hughes. She kept the rape victims’ identity confidential but stated, unflinchingly, that all three victims were lesbians and all three had been struck in the head. There wasn’t much else to the story, no quotes from the police and no other specific details. She sent the file to her editor anyway, with the promise she would have a fleshed-out feature story in the next day or two. Even as is, the short piece was still breaking news. This time she had the inside scoop.

Keesha Williams called back and said she wanted to talk. Sophie grabbed a notepad and charged out of the newspaper office, causing her coworkers to look up and stare as she ran by. She hurried across the huge, mostly empty parking lot and was grateful for the bright cold day. Anything beat the rain. The paper’s new digs were on the outskirts of town in a flat open area that was once farmland. It felt like the middle of nowhere. Sophie missed being downtown. In the old building, she’d at least been able to maintain the illusion that she was in the thick of things, working for a busy city newspaper. Out here in corn country, nothing moved and everyone had to mainline coffee just to stay awake.

She drove her Scion down Beltline, a long strip of expressway that looped from sister city Springfield, to the west end of Eugene. The car was a present from her parents, who had won it in a charity raffle. Sophie was eternally grateful. She had racked up a mountain of debt to put herself through college, taking nothing from her parents but an occasional grocery-money loan. A few months after graduation, her parents had surprised her with the gift of the bronze-colored, environmentally friendly, very hip toaster car. In turn, she had confided to them that she was in love with a woman. They had smiled brightly, wished her well, then promptly sold their home in Santa Fe and moved to China to teach English to business students. Sophie had seen them twice in the last four years. They told her not to take it personally, but sometimes she did anyway.

From the end of Beltline it was only a few miles to Timberline, leading up into the southwest hills. Sophie noted the pretty yellow condo in the slightly upscale neighborhood and thought she knew something about Keesha Williams already. Unlike Sophie, Keesha wanted to fit in and go largely unnoticed.

The striking black woman who opened the door startled Sophie. Although she’d heard Keesha’s name through the grapevine, she’d never met her. There were so few black people in Eugene, it had never occurred to her…

“Hi. Are you Sophie Speranza? I’m Keesha Williams.” The woman flashed a nervous smile.

“Yes. Thanks again for giving this interview.” Sophie offered her hand, and they went inside. Keesha locked the door behind them.

“Let’s sit at the kitchen table,” Keesha said, walking toward the back of the condo. “I need another cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

“Sure.” Sophie didn’t usually drink anything with caffeine because it made her even more hyper, but she never refused what her interview subject offered. She sat down, flipped open her notepad, and clicked on her tape recorder while Keesha poured coffee.

After bringing the mugs to the table, Keesha stepped over to the back door and checked the lock. She gave Sophie a fretful smile. “This is where he came in.”

“Is it hard to live here now?”

“Sometimes. But I’m not moving. This is my home.” Keesha sat down.

“How long have you lived in Eugene?”

“Seven years. I moved here to attend college, but also because I’d heard Eugene is to lesbians what San Francisco is to gay men.”

“Have you felt accepted here?” Sophie had been asking these questions of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgenders for years. She was gathering information for a book she hoped to write. Something like
Passages
by Gail Sheehy, but for non-heterosexuals. She knew on some level she was still trying to understand her own sexuality. In New Mexico, where she’d attended community college and had been the only openly bisexual person on campus, the answers had been quite different than they were here in Eugene.

“Mostly. But I’m black too. So there isn’t a place on this earth where I’ll ever feel like one of the crowd.” Keesha laughed as she said it, trying not to feel sorry for herself.

“Have you ever been harassed for being gay? I mean before the rape?”

“Not outright. But I’m very guarded. My girlfriend and I don’t even hold hands in public. In fact, my last relationship broke up because I wouldn’t be openly affectionate.” Keesha’s voice wavered a little and she looked away.

Sophie waited. After a moment, she asked, “Where did you grow up?”

“Springfield, Illinois.”

“What was it like there?”

Keesha leaned forward, her body tense now. “High school was a nightmare. I made the mistake of kissing another girl and someone saw us. After that, I was teased, spit at, and assaulted. I thought about suicide for a while.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve had some bad breaks.”

Keesha exhaled in disgust. “I didn’t know, until yesterday, that I was raped because I’m a lesbian. That’s why I’m talking to you now. I’m tired of hiding and being afraid. Now that the worst has happened, what else have I got to lose?”

“I know this is hard for you. And I appreciate your sacrifice.” Sophie took a small sip of coffee and waited. She sensed Keesha had more to get off her chest.

“I’m trying not to be bitter about the rape,” Keesha said, holding back tears. “I don’t want to be that person. It’s not how I see myself.”

“How do you see yourself?”

She took a breath. “Contented. Grateful to God for all the good things in my life. I just don’t know how to stop being afraid. I carry Mace all the time now.” Keesha patted a pocket in her jeans. “And I constantly check the locks. I’m always looking around, moving quickly to put distance between myself and men.”

“Are you getting any counseling?”

Keesha shook her head. “I haven’t yet.”

“You should. It’s imperative.” Sophie was incapable of being objective about this.

“I know. I haven’t written a poem since the attack, and that’s not good.”

“You’re a poet?”