Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (8 page)

“What do you have going on today?”

“Being bored at school, what else?”

“Everything okay with your mother?”

“She’s sober, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I want to know if you’re happy about being over there.”

“Oh sure. We’re working on a huge scrap book that’s all about me.”

“Sounds fun. I hope to wrap up this case quickly, so I’ll see you soon.”

Jackson met Michael Quince in the conference room. The basic facts of the rape cases were known to everyone in the violent crime unit, but Jackson needed specifics. Quince, a thin dark man with movie star looks, had been a detective for five years, working robbery for the first three, then sex crimes for the last two years. He’d been assigned to a bomb investigation a few months back because of his military experience, but he had called in the FBI for help. It had been a one-of-a-kind case for Eugene.

“What’s the rapist’s MO?” Jackson shifted in the hard metal chair. The city’s tight budget wouldn’t allow anything in the conference room to be updated. The department needed a whole building—because the one they were in would crumple in an earthquake—but voters had decided that idea was just a fantasy.

Quince cleared his throat, as if preparing to give a speech. “He attacks from behind, delivering a blow to the victim’s head. Neither woman has any idea what she was struck with. The pathologist looked at photos of their wounds and said it was something smooth and cylindrical, like a flashlight or a heavy pipe.”

“Were they knocked unconscious?”

“Not at first. Just hurt and stunned enough for the guy to get a jump on them.” Quince rifled though a stack of notes ripped from various tablets. Jackson thought Quince had good potential as an investigator, but disorganization could get in his way.

Quince continued, “The first victim, Keesha Williams, was struck twice in the head, then the guy pushed her down on the floor, ripped her blouse off, and tied it around her face so she couldn’t see him.”

“Could she describe anything about him?”

“She said he seemed average, not noticeably large, but very strong. She thought he smelled like a smoker.” Quince glanced at his notes, looking for more detail. “His voice seemed young. That’s all I got from Williams, age twenty-six.”

“We’ll get back to her. Tell me about the second attack.”

“Amy Hastings was jogging on the path around Amazon Park around 9:30 p.m. She heard someone behind her, then she was hit in the head. Twice. Then the guy pulled a pillowcase over her head, dragged her into the bushes, and raped her. He punched and kicked her repeatedly and told her not to move for five minutes or he’d kill her.”

“So he brought the pillowcase with him?”

Quince nodded. “Improving his technique with the second strike.”

“And her attack sounds more violent.”

“Definitely. His anger is escalating.”

“Where was the first victim attacked?”

“In her home. He came in through an unlocked back door.”

“How far apart on the dates?”

“Three weeks. And it’s been two weeks since the last one.”

There was a moment of silence as they both realized the perpetrator was likely to strike at any moment.

“Were these women random choices or do they have something in common?”

Quince looked distressed. “That’s the critical question, and I don’t have a good answer. Both victims had attended Lane Community College in the past, but weren’t students there anymore.”

“I want to talk to both victims. Will you set up interviews for me? As soon as possible?”

“I will. But the grapevine says you already have a suspect in custody for your homicide.”

“There are some potential kinks in the scenario.” Jackson squeezed his forehead, a habit he’d recently become aware of. “Was either of your rape victims penetrated with an object?”

Quince raised an eyebrow. “Amy Hastings said he used something on her. She doesn’t know what it was. “

“Why does he use an object? Because he has trouble with erections?” Jackson was thinking out loud, not really expecting an answer.

“Maybe it’s more about punishing the women than having sex.”

“It usually is. Any trace evidence?”

“We have DNA. The nurse who does the rape exams at the hospital found trace amounts of semen on both victims.” Quince seemed a little puzzled. “ It’s as if the perp used a condom, but not effectively. The two DNA samples match each other, but not anyone in the database.”

“So we just have to find him and test him and we’ll get a conviction. Where do you think we should look?”

“Lane Community College is the one place the victims shared.”

The campus was a starting place—a very broad starting place, with thousands of potential male suspects of all ages and types, but it gave Jackson a database to sift through. He sensed that the rapist selected and stalked his victims, but how were they chosen? “Did these women share any physical characteristics?”

“None. They were different ages, different sizes, had different hair color, different occupations. The college was the only connection I could find. I tried to get a warrant to search LCC’s student files but Judge Volcansek turned it down.”

“Work with the DA’s office to rewrite it,” Jackson suggested. “Then give it to Judge Cranston.” Jackson sensed there was something more in the rape files, something overlooked. He’d missed important information once or twice himself. “Do me a favor and type up all your notes, then print them out for me. There may be something there that meshes with my homicide.” He checked his watch: 10:15 a.m. Why hadn’t Mariah Martin called?

“Thanks, Quince. We won’t merge these cases yet, but let’s keep each other in the loop. And get back to me with interview times as soon as you can.”

Jackson headed back to his desk to call Josh’s caseworker. He needed to talk to the boy before he interrogated Gorman again. Gorman had been transferred to the county jail and booked on possession charges. He probably had an arraignment this afternoon.

Mariah Martin’s phone rang six times before she picked up. “Good morning, Detective Jackson.”

Her cheerfulness made him leery. “Can you bring Josh in now?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. He’s not ready.”

Jackson bit his lip to keep from swearing. “Do you realize how important this is? I need solid evidence that Raina was in the Gormans’ home the night of her murder. It’s the only way I’ll get Bruce Gorman to talk.”

“I understand. I really do. Raina was a wonderful person, and I want this bastard put away.”

Jackson clenched his jaw and waited for the ‘but’.

“But Josh won’t even talk to me right now. So I’m trying to contact our in-house psychologist to set up some counseling and to arrange for Josh to return to his foster parents. He needs to know where he’s going to wake up tomorrow and the next day.”

Jackson struggled to accept the idea that he wouldn’t get what he wanted. “Can you ask him for me? One simple question: Did Raina come to their house Wednesday night?”

Martin laughed a little. “You’re rather tenacious. And I will help you. I just can’t promise when. Goodbye for now, Detective.”

Shit
. He tried not to hate the woman. She was just doing her job.

Jackson had a few minutes before the taskforce was scheduled to meet. He called his friend Ed Stevens in the Portland FBI office. Stevens’ voice mail picked up so Jackson left a message: “It’s Wade Jackson. I’ve got a rapist who beats his victims, covers their heads, and sometimes uses an object in the assault, maybe a vibrator. I need a profile, if you have time. Call me.”

The next call was harder, but politics demanded it. Sergeant Lammers picked up almost immediately. “Jackson, tell me something I want to hear.”

Sometimes it annoyed him that caller ID announced his name before he could, but he hated when other people hid behind ‘private call’. So he refused to list himself that way. “I have a suspect in custody.”

“Good work. Who is he?”

“Bruce Gorman, the meth-head father of a boy that Raina, the victim, was monitoring through the CSA program.”

“She was a CSA volunteer?” Lammers practically groaned.

“Yep.”

“Damn. I hope the bureaucrats don’t overreact and shut down the program.”

That hadn’t occurred to Jackson. He debated whether to tell her about the possible link to the rape cases, then decided to wait.

“What have you got on him?” Lammers wanted to know.

Good question
. “Nothing solid yet. But the victim was on her way to Gorman’s house, and he has a history of violence against women. I’m hoping the boy will tell us that Raina was there.”

“That’s weak, Jackson. Call me when you have some evidence.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jackson took another minute to order pizza for the meeting. During the first week of a tough case, he often ate nothing but junk food and still lost weight. It was the infrequency of meals combined with the high caloric burn of round-the-clock intensity.

He was five minutes early going in, but Quince, Evans, and Schakowski were already in the conference room. Quince hadn’t been up all night and Evans wore her bright-eyed Provigil face, so Schak was the only one with a puffy-eyed hangover look. Besides himself. Jackson avoided coming into contact with mirrors during the first two days of an investigation. Lack of sleep made him look like a suspect.

“I’ve got pizza coming, so no whining about a noon meeting.”

“La Perla’s?”

“Of course.” Jackson took a seat. “Evans, will you keep the board?” He turned to Schak. “Anything to report from the houses on the hill?”

“Nothing. Except for the woman who called in about the Volvo.”

“Evans, tell us about your interview with Jamie, the victim’s friend.”

Evans faced the board and looked back over her shoulder as she talked and made notes. “Jamie is twenty, lives with her parents, and is also a CSA volunteer like Raina. She and Jamie went to high school together. Jamie has taken classes at LCC, but isn’t a student there now. I got all this from her parents. Jamie was too upset to provide much information.”

“What did you learn about Raina?” Jackson asked. “We need to document everything we know about her, so Quince can compare his victims with ours. We need to figure out if these cases are related.”

Evans started a list on the dry-erase board:
Raina Hughes
,
age 20
,
CSA volunteer
,
Lane Community College student
. She turned back to the others. “What else?”

“Her mother was a drug addict who died seven years ago,” Jackson reported. “Despite that troubled past, Raina was a good student with no bad habits, says Grandma.” He turned to Schak. “There was a collection of blankets and things in the trunk of her car. Find out if she came into direct contact with homeless men.”

Evans wrote hurriedly to catch up.

mother
/
dead drug addict

no bad habits

charity work

direct contact with homeless
?

Jackson shook his head, surprised by the picture that was emerging. “Raina seems to be quite a success story.”

Evans looked back at the group. “I just remembered that Jamie said Raina was unpredictable and that sometimes she wouldn’t see her for days.”

“That could be important. Maybe she had a secret boyfriend.” Jackson turned to Quince. “Anything in this profile look familiar?”

“Just the community college. But the rape victims were no longer students.” Quince glanced down at his notes. “Keesha Williams earned a two-year degree as a dental assistant in 2006, and Amy Hastings attended in 2007 and took mostly creative writing classes.”