The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the April sun, bathing the peach walls in a soft glow. Jackson could see why she wanted to spend time here. Elle Durham spoke into an intercom and asked someone to bring coffee.
Jackson decided not to let the meeting get too comfortable. “I saw your video on the news last night. Offering to pay a ransom before you get a demand is not a good idea.”
Elle bristled. “I’m trying to protect my daughter.”
“Has anyone called trying to collect?”
“Yes.” Her eyes darted away. Elle plopped down, looking old and tired now instead of rich and well preserved. “I hired someone, a retired cop, to handle the calls for me. He says neither of the callers could produce any evidence they have Courtney.”
“Who did you hire and where is he?”
“His name is Roger Ingram, and he’s in the gym right now. So is Brooke, my other daughter.”
Jackson didn’t recognize the cop’s name as he wrote it down. He’d been with the Eugene department nearly twenty years, so it was unlikely Ingram had been a local officer. “I’d like to talk to both of them before I leave.”
“Of course. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“I’d like to know about Courtney’s social life. You mentioned a boyfriend yesterday. Tell me about him.”
“Brett Fenton is a upstanding young man from a good family. He’s the first boyfriend Courtney has ever had who I could say that about.”
“I’d like to talk to him. What’s his phone number?”
Elle pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, searched through her contacts, and gave him the number.
Jackson jotted it down. He thought about Danette’s boyfriend, Chad, and wondered if he was somehow connected to Courtney.
“Does Courtney know a young man named Chad?”
“I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t know for sure.”
Jackson let it go. It seemed unlikely that Courtney and Chad would travel in the same circles. “How long have Courtney and Brett been a couple?”
“About three months. They went to school together, so they knew each other casually before, but they met at a charity fundraiser in January. I am very happy about the relationship.” Elle gave him a look, as if warning him not to scare Brett off.
“What about ex-boyfriends? Who was Courtney dating before?”
Elle’s stiffened and her thin face went a shade paler. “Oh dear. Her last boyfriend went a little crazy when she broke it off. He started out a little crazy too. I think he snorted cocaine like it was an asthma treatment.”
“His name?”
“Courtney always called him Skeet, but I think his name was Steve.”
“Do you know his last name or how to contact him?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“I need you to call around and find out if you can.” Jackson glanced at this notes. “I’d like to talk to Roger Ingram now.”
The tall man in the blue tracksuit stepped off the elliptical machine and offered Jackson a sweaty hand. “Roger Ingram, retired Sacramento PD.”
Jackson shook his hand, thinking that up close Roger looked sixty, but his hair looked thirty-five. “Wade Jackson, Eugene homicide detective.” Jackson glanced over at the young woman on the stairstepper in the back of the room.
“That’s Brooke Durham, Courtney’s sister.”
She looked up, gave Jackson a small smile, and went back to her workout.
“Did you know the Durham family before this situation?” Jackson asked.
“Elle and I met last year.”
“Mind telling me how?”
Ingram pulled back. “Am I a suspect?”
“I like to know all the players and how they joined the game.”
“I work part time as a private detective, selective cases only. Elle hired me to investigate one of Courtney’s boyfriends last June.”
“Was his name Skeet or Steve?”
“No. It was Tristan Chalmers. He was clean, but liked to party.”
“Tell me about the calls you got this morning.” Jackson looked around the forty-by-forty gym for a bathroom.
“The first guy sounded older and fairly rational, but he couldn’t produce any evidence he had Courtney.”
“What did you ask for?”
“I said to put her on the phone or send me a digital picture. He said to give him a few minutes. He never called back.” Ingram walked over to the small stainless steel refrigerator in the corner and grabbed a bottled water. “The next call came from two young men. Very agitated. They threatened to hurt her if I didn’t just shut up and get the money to them. At one point, they started arguing with each other, then eventually hung up.”
“Have you handled situations like this before?”
“You mean a kidnapping?”
“A disappearance. If she’d been kidnapped for ransom, they would have called in the first twenty-four hours.” Jackson took out his business card with his cell phone number and handed it to Ingram. “Call me immediately if you hear anything.”
Jackson headed toward the stairstepper, ignoring the pressure on his kidneys. Brooke saw him coming but kept up her workout. She looked a lot like Courtney, but with darker hair and not quite as pretty. Eventually Brooke looked up. “I only have a few minutes left, but we can start talking anyway.”
“When was the last time you saw Courtney?”
“Monday evening before she went out.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Black jeans, black ankle boots, black camisole, suede turquoise waist length jacket, long silver-and-turquoise earrings.” Brooke reported the list with labored breath, sweat dripping from her brow.
“What kind of mood was she in?”
“She seemed okay. A little irritated that Brett was having dinner with his parents instead of her. I think that’s why she went down to Diego’s on a Monday night.” Brooke laughed. “That and the Ladies Night specials.”
“She and her boyfriend were fighting?”
“I think he’s pulling away from her.”
“You don’t seem very worried about Courtney.”
“That’s because I know Courtney.”
“You don’t think she’s been kidnapped?”
Brooke stopped climbing and shut off the machine. “Courtney is a wild child. She’s been a little less crazy lately because of Brett’s influence, but she’s still Courtney. She’ll turn up.”
“Do you know her ex-boyfriend’s name?”
“Skeeter? AKA Steve Smith? You think she’s with him?”
“You tell me. Could she be?”
“Not voluntarily. In fact, I heard he went to jail.”
Jackson jotted down Steve’s last name and wondered how far he had to carry this charade. No one really believed Courtney had been taken against her will, except possibly her mother. As Zapata had pointed out, Elle could be playing her part just to tweak her daughter’s guilt. Jackson closed his notebook. “Anything else I should know?”
“You’re leaking a little.”
Jackson had just enough time to go home, change his pants, and consume a turkey sandwich before arriving five minutes late to his doctor’s appointment. He hurried in, actually looking forward to the encounter. He was ready to do whatever was necessary to get these stents out of his body.
“How soon can I schedule surgery?” Jackson demanded as Dr. Jewel walked into the examining room.
“Slow down. We have a lot to talk about.” Dr. Jewel looked too young to be a surgeon. Jackson wondered if he should find someone with more experience. The doctor continued, “The surgery you need is called a ureterolysis. It’s a very rare procedure, and I’ve only done one. No other doctor in Eugene has performed any. I know a retired colleague with some experience who will assist, so you’ll be in good hands.”
“Fine. I need to get this done. I feel like I have to pee all the time. This morning, I was leaking while I was questioning someone.” There was no point in verbalizing how e
mbarrassing that had been.
“I’ll talk to my scheduler and we’ll get you in as soon as possible.” Jewel gave him a curious look. “Would you like to know what I’m going to do while I’ve got you open?”
Not really, Jackson thought. “Lay it out for me. My girlfriend and my daughter will want details.”
“First, we’ll cut your ureters free from the fibrous growth, then we’ll open the peritoneal sac that holds your intestines.” The doctor drew a little diagram as he spoke. “We’ll tuck the ureters inside the peritoneum and sew it back up. The idea is to protect your ureters from the growth.”
“You’re rerouting my plumbing.”
“Exactly.”
“What about the stuff around my aorta?”
Dr. Jewel tried to hide his concern. “I’ve consulted with a vascular surgeon, and no one has ever seen anything like it. Most people with fibrosis around the aorta have had an aortic aneurism that causes the growth. In those cases, a surgeon performs an aortic graft.”
Jackson felt his chest tighten just thinking about it.
“You haven’t had an aneurism, so we believe swapping your aorta for a piece of Dacron is a risky surgery, which may not help you.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Two months after the surgery, we’ll start you on prednisone. Hopefully, it will control the growth and you’ll be fine.” His tone was not reassuring.
“How long will I be off work?”
“Four to six weeks. It depends on how fast you recover and how much pain you have. We’re going to cut you open from sternum to pubis and flop all your organs out of the way so we can get to the ureters. It’s a bit of a shock to the system.”
Jackson’s bowels churned in protest. “Let’s schedule it.”
“I’ll check with Mandy and have her give you a call.”
As Jackson stood to leave, his phone rang. “It’s Sergeant Lammers. A cyclist just reported finding a dead woman on the bike path behind Autzen Stadium. Her description sounds like it could be Courtney Durham. Get a team out there ASAP.”
Chapter 11
Autzen Stadium, where the University of Oregon Ducks played football, appeared in the skyline as soon as Jackson turned off Ferry Street Bridge. Skyboxes had been added a few years ago, and now it was one of the tallest structures in the Southern Willamette Valley. Jackson drove past Alton Baker Park, lush with spring foliage, and headed out Centennial Boulevard. Technically, it was Martin Luther King Boulevard now, but after forty years of calling it Centennial, it was hard to make the change.
On a Wednesday afternoon in April, the massive parking lot was nearly empty. Jackson drove down the maintenance road that ran behind the property and connected to the river bike path. Near the water, the path disappeared into a thick grove of trees lining the Willamette River on both sides. The path ran for miles, connecting Eugene, Springfield, and Santa Clara. This area, though, was covered with wild grass, blackberry bushes, and a few stray oak and poplar trees.
He kept his speed down, watching for cyclists and whoever else was out here today. The weather was warm for the first time in months, and two-wheeled riders had taken to the streets en masse. Walkers and joggers too, many of them in shorts, white winter legs flashing. He’d called out Lara Evans and Rob Schakowski as his initial team, but he expected to be the first of the detectives to arrive. His doctor’s office was downtown, just across from the hospital and five minutes away.
Before the path reached the trees, it curved right and a patrol unit blocked the access. The officer was pulling crime scene tape from the trunk of his car. Fifty feet away, a cyclist stood near a white bike, leaned against a giant oak. Jackson parked behind the patrol unit on the asphalt path and got out of his car.
“Hey, Jackson, you got here fast.” Mike Flaggert was a veteran cop Jackson had known since he was on patrol.
“I was only a few minutes away. What have we got so far?”
Flaggert nodded toward the guy near the tree. “The cyclist says he stopped to put air in his tire, saw the body, and called it in. I stayed away from the body because I know this will turn into a clusterfuck, and I didn’t want to mess with the scene.”
“Thanks.”
Jackson headed toward the dark lump near a tall tangle of blackberry bush. As he approached, he slowed his pace and began to scan the ground for footprints and tire marks. The dead woman had not likely come here alone.
The thick wild grass didn’t give any sign of being trampled. The early morning rain, which had cleared off hours ago, had likely washed away any tire marks. The evidence technicians would go over every inch of it anyway. Jackson walked toward the young man near the bike, who looked ready to bolt.
“Thanks for waiting. I need you stay for a while longer.”
“How long? I’ve got to be at work by three.”
“Ten minutes. I need to check the body first, then ask you a few questions.”
“As I told the other cop, she’s dead for sure.”
Jackson trotted over and squatted next to the prone body. Fully clothed in jeans and a jacket, the young blond woman looked as if she might have simply gone to sleep. She was on her back with one arm down at her side and the other across her chest. Jackson studied her face. No one ever looked exactly like they did in photos, but Courtney Durham came close.
Jackson closed his eyes and asked God to watch over her soul.
He’d visited her home that morning and spoken to her family; Jackson felt like he knew this girl. He dreaded being the one to tell Elle. Mrs. Durham had asked him personally to find her daughter and he had failed. He hadn’t had enough time. When Lammers had assigned him to the case this morning, this young woman was already dead.
Jackson pulled on gloves and felt for a pulse. The coolness of her skin seeped through the latex. Jackson gently turned her head, looking for a wound. Then he saw the marks, a faded, purplish-yellow band of overlapping bruises on each side of her neck. He leaned in to better see the discoloration. They were definitely ligature marks, but they were also partially masked by foundation makeup, suggesting Courtney had tried to hide them.
Otherwise, her pale skin, perfect nose, and full lips were still flawless. He scanned her body, taking in the intact clothing. There were no rips, no stains, no blood he could see. With gloved fingers, he examined Courtney’s hands and found no defense wounds, but he noticed thin red lines around both wrists.
Had she been handcuffed or tied in some way? Jackson was reminded of a case he worked last fall. The thirteen-year-old girl who’d been left naked in a dumpster had abrasions on her wrists too. Based on what he knew about Courtney, these abrasions could have been caused by consensual bondage-type sex. The bruises on her neck could have been caused by sexual asphyxiation. For now, he pushed aside what he knew about Courtney. He had to stay open-minded. This young woman was dead long before her time, and he had to find out why.
Jackson pulled his camera from his black evidence bag and took a few photos to capture her position and distance from the bike path. He hated the inconvenience of using film, but the district attorney required it so defense lawyers couldn’t claim they had digitally doctored photographic evidence. Jackson didn’t know for sure this was even a crime scene, but it was always possible his actions would end up in court.
He heard a car coming up the path and turned to see the white medical examiner’s van. After a moment, Rich Gunderson, dressed in his usual black, headed toward him with a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. Jackson stood and stepped back from Courtney’s body.
Gunderson called out, “What have we got?”
“Young female, no apparent signs of trauma. Bruises on her neck and mild abrasions on her wrists. “
“Is she one of the missing girls I saw on the news last night?” Gunderson pulled his gray hair into a ponytail and slid on latex gloves.
“I think so. Where’s Parker?”
“She’s coming.”
Jackson looked over at the path and
saw Jasmine Parker climb out of the back of the van. Her tall, thin frame was stronger than it looked and she easily carried an oversized crime scene bag. He’d seen Jasmine lug giant spotlights to a scene. Jackson was pleased to have bright sunlight to work under for a change.
As Gunderson knelt over the body, Jackson looked around for a purse or a wallet. He needed to see her identification. The small cloth bag was only a few feet away. Its color, the same as her jacket, made it hard to see in the green grass. As Jackson reached for it, Parker said, “Wait. Let me photograph it in location first.”
Jackson let her take a few pictures, then reached for the purse. It was only about six inches square and held just the essentials: driver’s license, credit card, lipstick, and condom. No cell phone? He hoped to find a phone in her jacket pocket. It would make this investigation so much easier.
The name on the license was Courtney Durham.
Jackson stood, feeling the stents in his gut shift and squeeze. He reminded himself that it could be worse. Being alive automatically made him one of the lucky ones. Jackson put the purse into a paper evidence bag, filled out the label, and tucked it into the leather carryall where he kept his crime scene tools, including two types of cameras, an assortment of brown paper evidence bags, extra film, a flashlight, crime scene tape, paper booties, and a box of latex gloves. Eventually, he would take Courtney’s purse to the lab for analysis, but he wanted to take a close look at everything first.
He turned to the cyclist, who was practically bouncing with impatience. “What’s your name?”
“Kyle Larson.”
“Let me see your ID.”
Kyle handed him a well-worn state ID, the kind carried by people who don’t have a driver’s license. It matched the name he’d given.
“Tell me how you found the body.”
“I was biking home from a friend’s in Springfield, and I stopped here to put some air in my tire. It’s got a slow leak.” He pushed his hands through his thick, dirty-looking hair. Jackson guessed him to be about thirty. “I saw some legs on the ground by the blackberry bush. I walked over to see if the person was okay. She didn’t look hurt, but she didn’t look alive either.”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 03 - Thrilled to Death Page 7
