“This room. Took all of five minutes. Now I’m headed for the bedroom.”
“The subpoena is fairly narrow, but so is this apartment.” McCray shrugged. “I’ll search the kitchen and bathroom.”
The bedroom was as neat as the living room, including a tightly made bed. Jackson’s first thought was military, but Bodehammer’s file didn’t mention the service. He wondered if the neatness was a symptom of his bipolar disorder. Excessive cleaning when he was in a manic mode. Or maybe Bodehammer’s father had been a neat freak. It certainly made searching easier. A heavy curtain covered the small window, so Jackson flipped on a light. The nicotine stink was just as heavy in the bedroom, but not a cigarette butt was in sight. Like the stink of dog in a house where there was no dog.
The top of the dresser held only a plain glass jar filled with coins and a sleek black jewelry box with a few ornamental rings and a single gold chain. In the first drawer he opened, Jackson found a boxed collection of knives tucked under a pile of paired white socks. Knives of every size and configuration. Some ornate and beautiful, others homemade and crude. A knife was a weapon and parolees weren’t allowed to own weapons, but at the moment Jackson didn’t care. What he needed was information telling him where he could find Bodehammer. A Christmas card from his father’s house. An address book. A computer file. He looked up and around the bedroom. Unless it was in the tiny kitchen, Bodehammer didn’t seem to possess a computer. Internet access wasn’t cheap and for a lot of working class people who tended to move around, a computer simply wasn’t that important.
A search of the remaining drawers revealed more compulsive neatness. T-shirts folded into quarters and stacked by color: white, black, blue, and gray. Faded and worn jeans neatly stored in the next drawer. No letters, notes, cards, or memoirs of any kind. Jackson lifted a folded black sweatshirt in the bottom drawer and discovered a stack of photographs. He quickly thumbed through them. All young blond women, who were strikingly attractive. His three victims—Amy Hastings, Keesha Williams, and Raina Hughes—were not among them.
Who were these women? Ex-girlfriends? Females who Bodehammer encountered socially and was drawn to? Jackson slid the photos into a plastic evidence bag. The pictures were not specifically on the subpoena list, but they could be considered ‘evidence of stalking behavior’. A search of the closet and nightstand failed to produce a camera or any kind of paperwork. If Bodehammer had any friends or relatives, there was not a single shred of evidence indicating so. Jackson found it disturbingly odd.
He crossed the hallway and stood outside the bathroom. McCray had the cabinet above the sink open. “Any meds in there?”
“Nope. Just the basics. Toothbrush, razor, and dental floss. This guy is not into clutter.”
“I think he’s paranoid as well. There’s nothing with any personal information here. No tax records. No address book. No bills. He doesn’t even have a folder with his rental agreement.”
“It’s unusual.”
Jackson’s cell phone rang. He stepped away from the bathroom and checked the screen. Sophie Speranza. Oh joy. He did not have time for her questions right now.
“What’s the plan?” McCray wanted to know as they moved back into the living room.
“Let’s see if any other neighbors are home. I talked to the woman in unit four already, so skip her. I’ll go see his probation officer. I found some photos, and I want to see if his PO recognizes any of the women.”
“Nudies?”
Jackson gave up a little smile. “No. Just young blond pretty girls. None of our victims are in the collection though.”
“Do any of the gals in the photos look like any of the victims?”
“Not really.”
“Odd.” McCray stroked his chin. “So he takes pictures of one type of girl, then rapes another type.”
“The perp attacks lesbians. I think it’s a punishment.”
“Bodehammer could be frustrated because the pretty blond girls won’t have anything to do with him.”
“If Bodehammer is the guy we’re looking for.”
“Is his DNA on file for comparison?”
Jackson shook his head. He wished everyone who was ever arrested would have his DNA processed and entered into the system. Unfortunately, the technology was slow and expensive and the state lab could barely keep up with the workload from current violent cases. It occurred to Jackson that he was in Bodehammer’s house and could easily pick up a hair from the pillow or sink drain. Without a warrant specific to DNA, he could never use the sample in court, but it couldn’t hurt to have it compared. “We need a warrant for DNA.”
McCray made a scoffing noise. “I almost didn’t get the search warrant. I know I’m not up to speed yet on all three cases, but it seems we don’t have a single piece of evidence linking Bodehammer to the crimes.”
Jackson pulled the photos from his pocket for another look. “Too bad these pictures don’t have names on the back. We need to get copies made, then circulate them among the staff, including the missing persons unit. Maybe one of these women has filed a complaint about harassment or a peeping Tom. Something to throw suspicion on Bodehammer.”
“DNA warrant first?” McCray said.
“Yes. I want to run these pictures by his PO before I turn them over to you.”
Jackson checked his watch and realized it was nearly four o’clock. He’d have to move fast to catch Ted Conner before he left the Parole and Probation office for the day. He made a quick trip back to the bedroom and picked up the flat, well-used pillow. It was covered in blond hairs. Bodehammer was a shedder, and apparently his neat freak habits didn’t include washing his pillowcase first thing every morning. The hairs were pale blond and straight and instantly reminded him of the hair the pathologist had found on Raina’s pubic area. Jackson’s heart rate picked up a little. Bodehammer was suddenly a viable suspect. Was he finally tracking the real killer? Gorman had looked so open-and-shut and had wasted so much of his time. The bastard would still do a few months for obstructing justice. Jackson put three of the blond hairs into a small plastic envelope, tucked it into his crime scene bag, and headed out into the fresh air.
Sophie didn’t like to sit for long periods of time. Even when she was writing, she had to get up frequently and walk around the room. The compulsion had gotten her into plenty of trouble in grade school and middle school. Her teachers had tried various interventions, most of which involved self-monitoring tally sheets. She had trained herself to make it through class periods, but the impulse had never gone away. Sophie had simply learned to suppress it in certain situations.
Right now she needed to get out of the car and walk up the block. The winter sun was dropping from the sky, and the warm day was quickly turning cold. Sophie pulled on her red suede jacket and started up the sidewalk. Michelle’s duplex was still quiet, but other homes on the street were starting to come alive with activity. People were arriving home from work, lights were coming on, and dinner smells drifted into the street. Sophie’s stomach growled as she walked. Had she eaten today? It didn’t matter. She was pursuing an important mission for a breaking story.
At the end of the block, she crossed over and headed back. Why hadn’t Jackson called? Sophie pulled out her cell phone, called him again, and left the same message. This time she was more emphatic. As she neared Michelle’s home, a battered white Subaru pulled into the driveway. The woman who climbed out was substantial, at least five foot ten and two hundred pounds. Brownish hair piled in a bun on top of her head added another three inches. Sophie crossed the street to her car and grabbed her shoulder bag. She waited five minutes, giving Michelle time to settle in, then hurried toward the door.
Her heart pounded as she rang the bell. She’d never felt nervous before an interview before. Meeting people and asking questions had always come easy to her. In a moment Michelle answered, dressed in a loose black caftan. “Hello, sweetie. Are you the Sophie who left a note in my door?”
“Yes. I registered
for your poetry workshop.”
Michelle smiled, revealing pretty teeth. “Come inside. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” As Michelle led her into the living room, the poet turned back and said, “I know you’re a reporter for the Willamette News, and I’m very curious to hear what this is about.”
Sophie stalled, trying to remember what she had planned to say. Nothing came to her so she blurted out, “Two of the women who recently took your workshop were raped and beaten and a third woman was raped and killed.” Sophie didn’t know yet if Raina had taken the class, but she would bet on it.
“Dear lord.” Michelle’s hands flew to her chest. “That is a stunning announcement.” She slumped down into a couch, letting out a small moan.
“I’m sorry to spring it on you like that. I meant to be more gentle.”
“Who are they? The women who took my class?”
“Amy Hastings and Keesha Williams were raped and beaten but survived, and Raina Hughes was raped and killed.”
“Dear lord.” Michelle lost the flush in her ample cheeks.
“Besides the fact that they were all lesbians, your workshop is the only connection.”
“Why aren’t the police here talking to me?”
“I don’t think they’ve made the connection. I called the detective who’s handling the case as soon as I put it together, but he hasn’t responded.”
“I need a drink.” Michelle heaved herself up from the low beige couch. “Do you want one? Gin and tonic?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Sophie waited in the living room, giving Michelle time to process the information. When she came back with the cocktails, Sophie asked, “Do you think it could be one of your neighbors? Have you ever noticed a man watching your house?”
“I don’t know what to say.” Michelle was nearly breathless. She paused and gulped her drink. Sophie took a tiny sip. She hated gin.
“It has to be somebody who knows you or sees your students come and go.”
Michelle shook her head. “I just don’t know. There’s a house down the street with three teenage boys. They probably notice some of my students, but they seem like nice young men.”
“Have you ever had any men in your classes?”
“I teach one workshop exclusively for men. I don’t get many takers, so I only run it twice a year.”
“You don’t have men and women in the same classes?” Sophie found this curious.
“I try to avoid it. Both genders are more focused and creative when they’re not distracted by sexual tension.” Michelle drained her tumbler of gin and tonic. “So I have workshops specifically for lesbian women, some workshops for all women, and a few just for men. Sometimes I run workshops that focus on a particular type of poetry and in those classes, I’ll have mostly women and maybe a guy or two.”
“Do any of your male students stand out as creepy or violent?”
Michelle gave a little laugh. “These are poetry workshops. They don’t exactly attract the macho violent types.”
Frustrated, Sophie took a sip of her drink and tried not to make a face. She wished Jackson would call. She was starting to feel out of her league. Still, she had a lead story for the paper—a break in the rape/murder cases.
Suddenly, Michelle drew in a sharp breath. “Oh dear lord, I think I know who it might be.”
Chapter 26
As Jackson pulled into the parking lot of the county parole/probation office, Ted Conner was coming out the main front door. Jackson parked and moved quickly, catching Conner just as he reached his truck. The PO looked a little surprised to see him again. “Did you find Bodehammer?” Conner asked.
“Not yet. Can we go back into your office for a moment? I want to run a few things by you.”
“Sure. I’m happy to help.” The big man turned and headed into the building.
Back in the small corner office, they both sat down, although neither man settled in. They had an unspoken understanding that this would not take long. Jackson reached in his crime scene bag for the stack of photos.
“We searched Bodehammer’s apartment and I found these pictures. I thought I’d run them by you to see if you recognize any of these women. I’m hoping one of them is a girlfriend or sister, someone who can tell us where Bodehammer might be. They might just be gay women he was targeting.” Jackson leaned across the desk to pass the pictures to Conner.
“Bodehammer doesn’t have a sister that I know of.” Conner stared at the first image for a moment, then flipped it to the back of the stack. He moved through the photos slowly, shaking his head. “These girls all look alike to me. And nowhere near butch enough to be lesbos.”
Jackson wasn’t giving up. “Do you know anything about his father, David Bodehammer? Where he worked? Where he lived?”
“He died of cancer, that’s all I know.” Conner looked up from the stack. “Wait. I think he was a retired logger. Something Ryan said once.”
Jackson wanted to dig deeper, but he decided to let Conner finish looking at the photos. He needed the PO to concentrate.
“Oh shit.” Conner’s face tightened and paled.
“What is it?”
“This is my daughter, Jamie.” Conner clenched his fists. “How did that bastard get her picture?”
Jackson’s brain was too busy making connections to respond. Bodehammer had Jamie’s photo. Jamie was Raina’s best friend/lover, and Raina was Bodehammer’s third victim. Were Bodehammer and Jamie Conner acquainted, or had his suspect been stalking both young women? Jackson felt the tight fist of dread in his chest. Was Jamie Conner in mortal danger? “I’d like to talk to Jamie immediately. Will you call her right now?”
Conner’s expression morphed from anger into worry. He reached for his cell phone and pressed a speed dial button. As he waited for his daughter to pick up, Conner closed his eyes. Jackson thought he might be praying.
After a moment, Conner left a message, “Jamie, it’s Dad. Call me immediately. This is important.”
Jackson gave him a moment, then asked, “When was the last time you saw Jamie?”
Conner’s face crumbled. “Oh Christ. Don’t even think that.”
Jackson waited.
Finally, Conner said, “Saturday morning. She left to go stay with her friend Paul. But I talked to her Sunday morning. Yesterday morning.”
“Call Paul.”
“I don’t have his number.” Conner stared at his phone as if it had the answers. “But I’m sure my wife does.” He pushed another speed dial number and waited. “Beth. What’s Paul’s number?” A pause. “Nothing is going on. I just need to talk to Jamie, and I thought I’d try Paul.” Another pause. “When was the last time you talked to her?”
After a minute, Conner hung up and reported, “Beth hasn’t talked to Jamie since yesterday either. And she’s called her several times today. It’s not like Jamie not to return her mother’s calls. I’m officially worried.”
Jackson started to ask about Paul’s number, but Conner was already dialing. The PO left Paul a brief message. “This is Ted Conner. I need to talk to you about Jamie right away. Please call.”
The two men sat for a moment in silence. Jackson felt sorry for Conner. He knew how panicked he’d be if he thought his daughter Katie was missing. It made his heart hurt just to think about it. He tried to come up with something comforting to say. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. She’s an adult and she’s probably just busy or distracted. I’ll put out a BOLO for her just in case.”
“Thanks.” Conner’s eyes were busy, and Jackson wondered what he was thinking.
“I’ll keep searching for Bodehammer. Call me if you think of anything that could help.”
Conner reached for his file cabinet. “I’ll look back through every scrap of paper I have on Bodehammer. There’s got to be something there.”
“We’ll find them both.” Jackson stood to leave. He would have shaken Conner’s hand, but the PO’s attention was buried in a file.
In the
car, Jackson checked his phone for messages. He was hoping to hear from Evans that she had tracked down Bodehammer’s family. Instead he heard from Sophie Speranza. Something in her voice caught his attention. Was it anxiety? He listened to her message: “Jackson, it’s Sophie. I have important information. Please call me.”
Jackson pressed the ‘return call’ option. Sophie picked up immediately. “Detective Jackson, I’m so glad to hear from you.”
“What information do you have?”
“The victims all took a workshop from a poet named Michelle Peterson. She lives at 2031 Alder Street. I’m here now talking to her.”
Jackson’s heart pounded with mixed emotions. Was this the break he desperately needed? How in the hell had a young reporter beat him to this lead?
“I’m on my way.”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For Page 21
