Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 03 - Thrilled to Death

by L. J. Sellers

  Something flashed in Fenton’s eyes. “No.”

  “What about during sex? Some people like to have their air flow restricted for orgasm. Did you ever choke Courtney during sex?”

  A long silence.

  “Just tell me, Brett. Help me understand what happened. Help yourself by telling the truth.”

  “She wanted it. She had trouble–”

  The door swung open and a desk officer stepped in and said, “I have two lawyers here to represent Brett Fenton. Mr. Adam Traynor and Mr. Roger Barnsworth.”

  Damn!

  Most of the people he interrogated in this room had no one to represent them. The Fentons had money, so they’d sent their personal lawyer and the best defense attorney in town. “He only gets one lawyer,” Jackson said. “The other can wait in the lobby.”

  The clerk turned back to the hallway and relayed Jackson’s message. After a murmured discussion, a large black man with a shaved head strode in to the room.

  Jackson stood to shake his hand. “Mr. Barnsworth, good to see you again.” The criminal defense attorney had represented Eugene’s ex-mayor during a murder investigation last fall.

  Barnsworth nodded, grabbed the extra chair by the wall, and sat down next to his client. After cursory introductions were made, Barnsworth said, “Have you charged my client with a crime?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are the circumstances?”

  “His girlfriend is dead, he was the last person to talk to her, and he lied to us about it.”

  Barnsworth’s brow creased into a tiny scowl. “I’d like to confer with my client alone.”

  “I’d like to finish this conversation. Mr. Fenton has been very forthcoming, and I believe he would like to continue.”

  Brett looked back and forth between the two men.

  Jackson prodded. “You were just going to tell us about how you choked Courtney during sex.”

  “No you’re not.” Barnsworth grabbed his client’s arm. “Brett, I want you to stop answering questions.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t want to look guilty. The asphyxiation thing was a week ago.”

  Were the bruises that old? “Whose idea was it?”

  “It was Courtney’s. She was–” Brett stopped, then slumped forward.

  Jackson waited. His suspect wanted to talk about this.

  “She was sexually frustrated,” Brett finally said. “Despite her enthusiasm for sex, Courtney didn’t have orgasms easily.” Brett looked away at the wall. “She tried. We tried.” He glanced back at Jackson. “I worried that’s what the whole kidnapping thing was about. That she wanted to punish herself. Or maybe get raped. Or have sex with some lowlife stranger just to see if it would make her come.”

  Jackson sat back and gave himself a moment. This was not what he expected to hear.

  “What kidnapping?” The defense attorney looked dumbfounded.

  Jackson looked at Barnsworth. “Courtney arranged for her own kidnapping as a thrill. An adventure. When it was over, she called Brett to pick her up and died soon after that. We’re trying to find out why, and Brett is helping us understand Courtney. Please let him continue.”

  “I won’t let him incriminate himself.”

  Jackson met Brett’s eyes. “What do you think was going on with Courtney? What was her main problem?”

  “I don’t know.” Brett rubbed his face again. “Too much money, a dead father, and not enough attention from her mother. Elle Durham is great in some ways, but I think she competed with her daughters and messed with their heads.”

  “Do you think Courtney was mentally ill?”

  “She had problems for sure. She’d been seeing a shrink for months.”

  A tingle ran up Jackson’s neck. “Do you know her doctor’s name?”

  “I think it’s Callahan.”

  Now Jackson’s whole body thrummed with adrenaline. “Dr. Stella Callahan?”

  “Yeah. Why? Do you know her?”

  Jackson looked over at Schak, who nodded, then back at Brett. “Do you know Danette Blake?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Have you ever heard her name before?”

  “No.”

  Jackson saw no indication Fenton was lying. “Will you excuse us?”

  He stepped out of the room and Schak followed, leaving the door open. Jackson kept an eye on Barnsworth, who was warning his client about offering too much information.

  “We need to talk to Callahan right away,” Jackson said, keeping his voice low. “Two young women disappeared on the same day and they were both seeing the same shrink. Now one is dead and other hasn’t been seen since her last appointment. Why didn’t I make this connection sooner?”

  “None of us did.” Schak shrugged. “Because the adventure kidnapping was the big lead, and no one told us Courtney was seeing a shrink.”

  “We’ll need a warrant. Callahan won’t tell us anything without one. Will you get started on the paper?”

  “I’m already writing it in my head.”

  Jackson went back into the interrogation room and sat. “When did Courtney start seeing Dr. Callahan?”

  “She was already going to appointments when we got together. She quit for a while, then started up again.”

  “How does Courtney know Dr. Callahan?”

  “I don’t know. Her mother might be able to tell you.” Brett seemed more relaxed, as if he sensed the pressure was off him.

  Jackson decided to relieve him of that notion. “The pathologist can lift fingerprints off neck skin. If you choked Courtney to death, we’ll know tomorrow after the autopsy. By then, you’ll have lost your chance to confess and plea bargain.”

  “Don’t say anything,” his lawyer warned. Barnsworth turned to Jackson. “If you’re not prepared to charge my client, I’d like him to be released now.”

  “That’s not going to happen. He’s our primary suspect and so far, he has no alibi for the timeframe of Courtney’s death.”

  “Talk to my parents. I’m sure my mother heard me come in.”

  “I plan to do that.” Jackson clicked off the recorder and stood to leave. “An officer will escort you to a holding cell. Mr. Barnsworth, your time here is up.”

  The attorney gave Jackson a withered look, then clapped Brett on the shoulder. “I’ll go see a judge and have you out of here before nightfall.”

  Jackson planned to see a judge too…and a psychiatrist.

  Chapter 19

  Jackson hung up his desk phone and swore out loud. He’d called Judge Cranston twice and couldn’t get hold of him. Walter Cranston was a sixty-year-old Republican who had worked as a prosecutor. Jackson always went to him first with any warrant that might be iffy. He’d also called Dr. Callahan and left two messages, emphasizing the urgency of his request to talk. He debated with himself about whether to call Judge Marlee Volcansek, a lifelong Democrat and member of the ACLU, who might be less inclined to force a psychiatrist to talk about her patients.

  Jackson dialed Volcansek anyway. A new sense of urgency pulsed through his veins. What the hell had happened to Danette? Could her disappearance somehow be related to Courtney Durham’s? On the surface, it made no sense, yet the connection existed and he had to pursue it. What if Callahan knew about the kidnappings? What if the psychiatrist was a predator?

  Judge Volcansek answered on the fifth ring. “I assume this is important or you wouldn’t be calling me at home during the dinner hour.”

  “You assume correctly. I need a warrant signed.”

  “I’m in the middle of making homemade pasta and need to put the phone down. Why don’t you stop by and talk to me about it while I cook?”

  “Thanks. Are you still on Crescent?”

  “I am.”

  On the drive over, Jackson called his daughter and was relieved when Katie picked up.

  “Hi Dad. It’s about time you called.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. I’m on a difficult homicide case right now.”

  �
��I know, but it doesn’t seem fair. You’ve got those stents and that weird disease. Why didn’t they give the case to someone else?”

  Her concern was like a gentle kiss on the forehead. “A young woman is dead and her mother asked me personally to take the case.”

  “Because you’re the best, right?”

  “Some days. What have you got going on?” He pulled to the left and took the Ferry Street Bridge.

  “Same old stuff. Drill team practice, a hideous math test on Friday that I don’t want to study for, and–”

  In the not-to-distant background, Renee yelled, “Why haven’t you unloaded the dishwasher yet?”

  “I’m talking to Dad.”

  “Honey, don’t yell back. It hurts my ears and pisses her off.” Jackson kept his voice gentle, but Renee’s outburst concerned him. He associated the yelling with drinking. In theory, Renee had been sober for about six months. He hoped for Katie’s sake it wasn’t over.

  “Make it fast, I need some help in here,” Renee said, her voice fading as she moved away from Katie’s phone.

  “Finish what you were telling me, hon.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Is everything okay over there?”

  Katie lowered her voice to a whisper. “She gets all stressed out after work, then mellows out later. I think she’s hooked on those anti-anxiety pills.”

  Jackson’s hands tightened on the wheel. He was glad he’d finally bought a wireless earpiece for talking and driving. “How stressed? Is she verbally abusive?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. Don’t worry, Dad. It’s not like when she was drinking.”

  If Jackson hadn’t been driving, he would have closed his eyes as he prayed for strength. “Do you want me to come and get you?” Jackson had full custody. Renee’s time with Katie was at his discretion.

  “No. You have a case to clear.” In a less certain voice, Katie asked, “What about this weekend? I’d like to come home and work on the trike.” The three-wheeled motorcycle they were building together from an old Volkswagen was nearly complete, and they were both excited to take it on the road.

  “We’ll do that. I promise.”

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow after school. Love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too.”

  Jackson flipped his phone shut and swallowed hard. As a younger man, he would have never believed he could love someone as much as he loved his daughter. Sometimes, like now, it made him feel dysfunctional and powerless.

  He rolled down his window, sucked in some oxygen, and realized he’d missed his turn.

  He could smell warm pesto as he approached the judge’s front door. Jackson’s stomach growled. He’d sent Schak out to question Brett Fenton’s parents and told him to take a dinner break afterward. Jackson hadn’t eaten since their breakfast in Portland this morning, which was why he often lost five or six pounds during an intensive murder investigation.

  He almost didn’t recognize the judge when she opened the door. She was wearing a jade velour tracksuit and her long hair swung freely. Jackson had never seen Marlee Volcansek in anything but her black robe and pulled-back hair. Her face was as tight as ever though, thanks to Botox and fillers.

  “Come in,” she said, gesturing and walking away.

  Jackson followed her into a massive kitchen with shiny stainless steel appliances and a sunset-pink granite counter top. Even if he got around to remodeling his modest older home, his kitchen would never have this much space.

  “Thanks for taking time for this.”

  “It’s my job.” She turned and he saw her smile broadly for the first time. “What’s the warrant about?”

  “I need to question a psychiatrist about two of her patients. One disappeared Monday morning after her appointment with Dr. Callahan, and the other died Tuesday under very suspicious circumstances.” Jackson didn’t want to bring up the adventure kidnapping if he didn’t have to. It would only muddy the issue. “I need to know what the connection is, and I suspect Callahan is the only one who knows.”

  “I saw the news about the disappearances the other night, and I read about Courtney’s death in the paper this morning. The other young woman is still missing?”

  “Yes. Until today, I thought she probably ran off because she couldn’t handle her baby. Then I learned Courtney was also seeing Dr. Callahan. I have to get the psychiatrist to open up about these women. I also want to look at both their files and see if they have anything in common.”

  Volcansek turned a burner down and wiped her hands on her apron. “The dead woman no longer has any doctor–client confidentiality to protect. The missing woman, what’s her name?”

  “Danette Blake.”

  “Danette still has a legal privilege to protect. I’m not sure you have compelling evidence for violating that privilege.”

  “Dr. Callahan was the last person to see Danette.”

  “Do you suspect the psychiatrist of harming her, or conspiring to harm her?”

  “It’s starting to look like a possibility.”

  Volcansek carried the cooked pasta to the sink and dumped it in a colander to drain. “Do you suspect the doctor of harming or conspiring to harm Courtney Durham?”

  Jackson fought to control his impatience. “At this point, no. Something weird is going on here, and I need to find out what it is. What if Dr. Callahan has other young female patients who are at risk?”

  “Did you write the warrant for a limited search?”

  Jackson hadn’t written it, nor read it. “Of course.”

  “Okay. I’ll skim through it.” She dried her hands. “Have you eaten?”

  “No, but I’m fine.”

  “Nonsense. Eat some pasta while I read.” She went to the sink and scooped some short curly noodles into a bowl, then ladled some pesto sauce over the top. “Italian sausage?”

  “Sure.” His stomach growled in response.

  As she reached into a drawer for a utensil, Jackson set the subpoena on the breakfast table near the window.

  He was scraping the bottom of his bowl before the judge finished reading. She made two strikethroughs, then signed the paperwork. “Now get going. My husband will be home soon and I still need to make artichoke salad.”

  Jackson drove to headquarters and sat at his desk to read through his notes. What was he missing? As an intelligent, twenty-year cop, he didn’t believe in coincidence. Two young women with the same shrink disappear on the same day. There had to be a connection. Only Courtney was never really missing. What had Brett Fenton said? That Courtney might have done it to get her mother’s attention? Was Danette pulling some kind of stunt for the attention too? Had Dr. Callahan somehow given both of them the same idea?

  His cell phone rang, jolting him out of his thoughts.

  It was Schak. “Hey, Jackson. Mrs. Fenton didn’t actually hear Brett come home Tuesday night, but she says she got up around midnight to get a drink of water and his jacket was on the couch and his car was in the driveway.”

  “Midnight gives him plenty of time to drive to Autzen Stadium, choke the life out of Courtney, and drive back home.”

  “Courtney called him at 10:13, so yep, it’s doable. Have you heard from the shrink?”

  “Not yet, but I have a signed warrant. I’ll park in front of her house if I have to.”

  “Any word on Eddie Lucas?”

  “Nothing there either. Go home and get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

  Jackson called Mrs. Durham and left her a message asking her to get back to him. While he waited for his return calls, he opened his carryall and removed the evidence bag holding Courtney’s purse. He’d intended to look at the purse before now, but first the ThrillSeekers lead had consumed the investigation, then Brett Fenton’s lie.

  He pulled on gloves, clicked on his desk lamp, and held the small greenish-blue bag under the light. He scanned every inch of the cloth, looking for blood or semen or anything unusual. A tiny stain in the corner looked like blue ink, but no
thing else popped for him. Jackson removed its sparse contents one at time and held them under the lamp.

  The driver’s license was standard issue, except Courtney’s headshot in front of the blue curtain actually looked quite good, even though she wasn’t smiling. The credit card was issued by Bank of America and wasn’t set to expire for ten years. Jackson had never been issued a card that was good for more than two years at a time. The tube of lipstick was surprisingly smudged, and the color a dark watermelon pink. The condom was made by Trojan and revealed nothing new about the victim’s sexual preferences.

  Jackson stuck his hand inside the little bag, feeling around for a zippered compartment. He found a little flap instead. His slid two fingers into the opening in the cloth and bumped up against a small vial. He couldn’t manipulate his big fingers inside the small opening, so he used his other gloved hand to push against the vial through the cloth from the outside. In a moment, the vial lay in his palm. His guess was amyl nitrate, a street drug used to enhance sex. It fit with Brett’s account of Courtney’s struggle to have an orgasm. The one-inch vial was half full of clear liquid. Maybe Courtney had seduced Brett into having sex with her there in the open area behind the stadium. Another effort to find the right mix of variables that would sexually satisfy her.

  Brett was due for another round of questioning, but not until tomorrow. Jackson intended to let him sit in a cell overnight.

  What about Danette? He felt a headache coming on. Too little sleep, too much caffeine, and too much forced analysis. As he dug some aspirin out of his desk drawer, Lara Evans walked up. Her eyes were still bright with energy, despite having been on the job for twelve hours that day. It was the Provigil she took when working round-the-clock cases. Her energy made him feel even more beat up after a long day of stents rolling around in his gut and only four hours of sleep. Jackson wished he had her prescription, developed to keep military pilots awake.

  “Any news on Eddie Lucas?”

  Evans shook her head. “It’s not good. I finally talked to one of his neighbors who said she saw him throw a duffle bag in his van this morning and take off like a bat out of hell.”