“There weren’t any men in the class.” Keesha sounded skeptical.
“I realize that. But it is something you have in common. Maybe the rapist lives here in Michelle’s neighborhood.” Sophie instinctively looked around. An older woman across the street was retrieving her mail.
“Have you talked to the police about this?”
“Not yet. But I will right after I talk to Michelle.”
“Thank you for getting involved,” Keesha said, a little choked up. “Maybe they’ll get this guy.”
“They will. Take care.”
A rush of adrenaline ran through her veins as Sophie walked up to the door on the left. The first two rape victims had this woman and this duplex in common. This was the heart of the story. She could hardly wait to get the details and pull it all together in a narrative form.
Sophie knocked and waited, but no one answered. She went next door to the adjacent unit, which had a sign on the front door that said Poetry Workshops. Sophie thought it wasn’t particularly clever or literary—for a poet. She knocked on the matching dark red door and waited. No answer there either. Sophie’s grip tightened on her shoulder bag. Where was Michelle? This interview could not wait. Sophie knew she had to call Detective Jackson very soon and give him this lead, but once she did that, she might lose her access to Michelle.
The blinds were open in the window on this side of the duplex, so Sophie stepped off the cement walkway and peered into the living space. The room had a large rectangular table in the middle and padded kitchen chairs all around it. The table was bare except for a laptop at one end. Sophie thought leaving the portable computer in plain sight was an invitation to get robbed. The lights in the house were off, and she didn’t hear anyone moving around. No radio played in the background.
Not knowing what else to do, she walked back to the other door, which she assumed was Michelle’s living space and knocked again. Louder this time. While she waited, Sophie pulled her tablet from her bag and jotted a note: Please call me immediately. I have something extremely important to ask you about. 337-9821, Sophie Speranza
She folded the note and stuffed it into the tight crack between the door and its frame, then went back to her Scion. Now what? Sophie decided to wait for a while. Michelle Peterson was the key. The poet had to know something crucial to these hate crimes. Sophie turned her ignition to accessory and listened to the radio for a while. Heavy metal, head-banging music from the early 80s. Normally Sophie loved it, but today the intensity just added to her edginess. After a few minutes she shut it off and tried to read the current copy of Newsweek, which she always kept in her car for the occasions when she had to wait. That little voice in her head kept nagging her to call Jackson. Knowing it was the right thing to do, she finally gave in to it.
Jackson didn’t answer—he never took her calls—so she left him a message: “Detective Jackson. This is Sophie Speranza. I think I have important information about the rape cases. Please call me.” She felt a twinge of guilt for not giving him Michelle’s name and address, but how could she establish a relationship with the detective, or trade info, without having a live conversation? He had called her back last time and he would call her again. In time, she hoped Jackson would come to think of her as an ally. Of sorts.
Sophie decided to sit in front of Michelle’s house until the poet came back. That’s what a cop would do. She owed it to Jackson…and to all the women out there who might be potential victims.
Chapter 24
Ryan paced the house looking for his cigarettes. This whole thing with Jamie was not working out the way he had planned. Up close, she was not as perfect as he’d thought. Tiny acne scars on her chin and forehead marred her otherwise beautiful face, and her eyes were two different colors: one green, one blue. Ryan had never seen anything like it before, and it kind of creeped him out. Not that he saw her eyes much. Jamie kept them closed when they had sex. That part wasn’t going so well either. No matter what he said or how gentle or loving he tried to be, Jamie still cringed and cried and lay there unresponsive. He wanted to believe it would get better, but sometimes he thought he might have made a mistake.
Ryan found his smokes in the kitchen next to the stove. He grabbed them and wandered into the backyard, lighting up as he strolled through the door. Not having anything to do always made him restless. If he were back at his apartment, he’d listen to music or play his guitar. He hadn’t brought those things with him because he was afraid to make any noise that would get the neighbors’ attention. Ryan stood on the back deck and stared at the ancient gas grill, tucked just under the overhang of the roof. The finish had faded to a dull gray and the wooden handles were broken off, but he bet it still worked. His dad had used the grill year round. It’s how he always cooked pork chops. Ryan could see him sitting there with a beer and a cigarette while the meat sizzled. Now the faded lawn chair was empty, and his father would never use the grill again. Ryan fought the urge to yell at God for being so fucking heartless. That would certainly get the neighbors’ attention. He decided to get out of the house for a while, drive around, and clear his head. Driving always calmed him down.
Ryan went inside to let Jamie know he would be gone for a minute. He didn’t want her to feel abandoned. She was lying on the bed, eyes closed.
“Jamie, are you okay?”
She half sat up but didn’t respond.
“I’m going out, but I won’t be gone long.”
“Don’t leave me chained. Please. If you get killed in a car accident, I’ll slowly starve to death.” Her voice was weak and pathetic. For the first time, he thought about what would happen to Jamie if something happened to him. “Don’t worry, I’m a good driver. I’ll be back.”
He walked over and kissed her on the mouth. Jamie didn’t respond but she didn’t resist either. Ryan thought she might be coming around. He decided to give her some more time.
At first he drove aimlessly, ending up on Willamette. He’d heard it used to be called ‘The Gut’ and young people would drive up and down on weekends looking to hook up with some action. Ryan wished he’d lived in an earlier time when male-female relationships were less complicated. He noticed his gas tank was a little low, so he headed west and ended up near his apartment. Ryan decided to stop in and pick up his guitar. He could play it quietly for Jamie to help win her over. Girls liked him better when he played the guitar. They said it made him seem like a softer person.
As he turned on 19th Avenue to come up the back alley, his heart jolted in his chest. A dark blue cop car was parked near the alley entrance. Instinctively, Ryan pressed the brakes. The cops had gotten smart and were no longer driving the obvious black-and-whites, but he could still spot them.
Were the cops watching his apartment?
Ryan cranked the wheel into a driveway on the left. Heart pounding, he turned around and drove back in the direction he had come. Shit! Why were they watching his place? Did they know about Jamie? Ryan glanced in the rearview mirror. The cop car hadn’t moved. A wave of relief slowed his heart. Maybe they weren’t watching his place at all. There was a drug house in the alley with a lot of traffic, and the cops were bound to bust it sooner or later. He hit the accelerator, feeling compelled to get off the streets and back to the safety of his hideaway.
What if they were watching his apartment?
What did they suspect him of? Did the police know about his dad’s house? Probably not, Ryan tried to assure himself. The old man had been paranoid and kept everything in Ryan’s mother’s name, even after she ran off. Ryan turned off Jefferson, drove two blocks, and turned again, in case they were following him. They may have let him drive away, so he could lead them to Jamie. You could never be too careful, Dad always said. Ryan checked his rearview mirror again and didn’t see anyone coming up the road behind him.
Did they know about the van? It was still registered to the woman he’d bought it from for eight hundred dollars. She didn’t know that, of course. Nobody ever checked with the DMV to m
ake sure the new owner filed the paperwork. If you drove carefully, the authorities might never know. The less the government knew about his business, the better. Still, a cop was sitting outside his apartment. How long until they found him? Two days? Three at most?
Ryan decided it was time to leave Eugene. He had to let go of his attachment to the old childhood home and move on. Start a new life somewhere. The big question was: Should he take Jamie with him? And if not, what should he do with her?
Chapter 25
Derrick Michelson was ridiculously good looking. He was also tall, lean, and perfectly dressed in gray slacks and a purple pullover sweater. He looks gay, Jackson thought as he sat down across from him. What does that mean? Jackson didn’t know anymore. That thought—he looks gay—had popped into his head many times before, but this time he felt guilty about it. Was Kera right about this issue? Was he part of the problem?
Michelson looked out of place in the dingy gray interrogation room, like a well-dressed man in a soup line. He seemed calm and confident, nodding first at Jackson, then at Quince who sat in a chair off to the side.
“Thanks for coming in,” Jackson said. “We need your help to clear up a few things in a case we’re investigating.”
Michelson’s first response was a sardonic smile. “I have nothing to hide, but my lawyer will be here in a moment and I’d like to wait for her.”
“If your lawyer is going to advise you not to talk to us, then we can’t clear you of these crimes, which means you’ll stay a suspect and we’ll exercise our right to hold you for a few days.”
Michelson’s expression lost a little confidence. “You can’t hold me.”
“We can and we will. Our job is to protect the public.” Jackson leaned back and waited, giving the suspect time to weigh his options. After a moment Jackson said, “We are recording this interview as a matter of record. It’s an opportunity for you to establish for the jury your willingness to cooperate.”
At the word jury, Michelson blanched. “I am willing to cooperate. I have never hurt anyone.”
“Where were you last Wednesday, February 13 between 5 and 9 p.m.?”
Michelson reached into his leather shoulder bag and brought out a little electronic device. “I’ll check my calendar, but I’m sure I was having dinner with friends.” He used his thumbs to call up a new screen, then after a moment said, “Yes. I was at the Oregon Electric Station. Our reservation was at six o’clock and we were in the restaurant for about three hours.”
There was still a window of opportunity. Jackson asked, “Where were you at 5 p.m.?”
“I was home, probably checking my e-mail. I usually spend time on my computer after work.”
“Was anyone else at home with you?”
“No.” Michelson’s shoulders slumped.
There was a brief knock on the door. One of the desk officers stepped in, followed by an older woman in a beige pantsuit. “This is Vera Thornton. She’s here for Mr. Michelson.”
Jackson introduced himself and Quince as everyone shook hands. The lawyer’s grip surprised him. Vera Thornton looked old enough to be retired, but her whole persona reminded Jackson of a sixth grade teacher who used to make him shake with fear. “Why did you start without me?” Thornton demanded, as she took a seat next to her client.
“I’m in a hurry,” Jackson responded. “Young women are being raped and murdered and I need to find out—right now—who’s doing it. Your client has decided it’s in his best interest to answer our questions.”
Irritation seemed to be her natural expression. “What have you discussed so far?”
“The time frame of 5 to 9 p.m., February 13. Mr. Michelson claims to have been dining with friends, except for the period between five and six o’clock, which he has no verifiable alibi for.”
“Why is my client even a suspect? He’s a well-respected member of the academic community and has absolutely no criminal history.”
Jackson was suddenly impatient. “We don’t have to tell you why we suspect him. And I plan to continue questioning Mr. Michelson.” He turned back to the professor. “Tell me about your relationship with Amy Hastings.”
“Who is Amy Hastings?”
“You have no idea?”
Michelson’s eyes calculated the possibilities. “I assume you think I know her, so she must have been a student in one of my classes. I’ve taught hundreds of students. I remember very few names for any length of time. Her name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“You resigned from your job last week, accused of having sex with one of your students. How many of your students did you sleep with over the years?”
Vera Thornton rapped the table. “Do not answer that!”
Quince spoke up. “I talked to people on campus. You have a reputation for getting ‘close’ to certain female students. Who exactly is your type?”
“My client will not answer any non-specific questions. Stick to names and dates or I’ll terminate this conversation.”
“How well did you know Keesha Williams?” Jackson asked.
Michelson signaled a little distress. “I remember her because she is a talented writer, and I encouraged her to pursue a career in literary arts. Has something happened to Keesha?”
Jackson wondered for a second if Michelson was acting. The professor’s reactions seemed a little too well constructed. Jackson decided to test him. “Keesha is fine and working as a school teacher in Springfield.”
Michelson didn’t react to the misinformation. Either he had a great poker face or didn’t know anything about Keesha Williams’ current life. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope she’s teaching writing.”
“When was the last time you saw Keesha?”
“I’m not sure. I think she was at LCC the year before last. And I think she was in my class spring term.”
“Do you remember when Raina Hughes took your class?”
Michelson shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t.”
“When was the last time you saw Raina?”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“What about Niki Blackwell?”
Michelson shook his head again but showed no reaction to the false name. Jackson realized he would probably not be able to trick or intimidate this suspect into giving him anything. “Would you consent to a DNA analysis?”
“No.” His lawyer spoke for him.
Jackson ignored her and kept his eyes on Michelson. “If you’re innocent, your DNA will clear you of all suspicion. Refusing to give your DNA makes you look guilty. But we will get it with a subpoena anyway.”
“Nonsense! You have nothing to support a subpoena.” Thornton stood and turned to her client. “My advice is to terminate this conversation immediately and to keep your DNA out of the system.”
Michelson pressed his lips together, hesitated. “I’m done answering questions.”
“Suit yourself.” Jackson stood and gestured to Vera Thornton that it was time to leave. She looked unhappy about it, but complied. Jackson followed her out, with Quince behind him, leaving the professor in the interrogation room alone. In the hallway, Jackson asked Quince, “What about a subpoena for his DNA?”
“Schak is working on that now.”
“Great. Let’s hold Michelson as long as we can. Meanwhile, McCray and I will search Bodehammer’s apartment.”
Jackson reached the apartment before McCray. He knocked on Bodehammer’s door just to cover the bases. Still no response. He called McCray. “Did you get the subpoena?”
“I’m walking out of the courthouse with it now.”
“Excellent.”
Jackson decided not to wait for the paperwork or waste time tracking down a key from the manager or owner. A credit card quickly bypassed the cheap lock. He didn’t usually resort to such tactics, but Jackson had an escalating concern about Bodehammer’s location and current activities.
Nicotine residue permeated the air and stained the walls. The bitter smell made Jackson’s eyes water. The tiny living ro
om was immaculate. No clutter, no stains on the carpet, no cigarette butts in the ashtray. The room was spartan, with only a couch, TV, and stereo. A guitar case leaned against a short bare wall. His gut said the sparseness wasn’t a good sign. How could he riffle through the paperwork if there was no paper?
Nothing under the couch and nothing under its cushions. This level of clean was not normal. Beyond the couch, there wasn’t much to search in the living room. Jackson flipped through the CD collection but didn’t find any disks that looked home burned or as if they might contain anything but music files.
McCray walked through the open door. “I see you found the spare key,” he said, gesturing toward the broken chain hanging from the latch.
“People leave them in the most obvious places.”
“What have you covered so far?”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For Page 20
