Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For

by L. J. Sellers

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Schak flipped it open and saw Tracy illuminated on the screen. It was his wife and he almost didn’t answer. On the last ring before it kicked over to voice mail, he picked up. “Hello, Tracy. Is this important?”

  “You tell me, Rob. He’s your son. Is he important?”

  Schak let out a long sigh. “Of course, Brad is important. That’s why I’m trying to keep him from making this mistake.”

  “He doesn’t see it as a mistake. He sees this trip as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You really need to support his decision. It’s important to your relationship.”

  “But I don’t support it. He’s letting go of a great future with the best employer in this town to go hiking, for Christ’s sake.” Schak’s teeth hurt and he realized he was grinding them. He tried to relax.

  “It’s just a job. He’ll find another one when he gets back.”

  Schak heard a familiar tone in Tracy’s voice. She was digging in and ready to go to the mat over this. Schak turned and headed for his car as he talked. “The economy is going to hell. Having a six-month gap in his work history will make it hard for Brad to find a decent job when he gets back.”

  “Goddammit, Rob. He’s only twenty. He wants to travel and see something of the world. You have to accept the idea that he may not want to spend his whole life here in Eugene.”

  Schak climbed into his car and leaned back against the seat. That was the thing. He didn’t want to lose the boy. He didn’t want Brad to be thousands of miles away.

  “Rob, are you still there?”

  “I’m here. Tracy, I know you think we have to let him go, but what if he doesn’t come back?”

  “He will.”

  Schak wasn’t so sure. He started his car and pulled into the street. “Okay. I’ll support his decision. Now what is it going to cost us?”

  Jamie could tell Ryan was gone because the cigarette smoke stopped drifting into her little bedroom prison. The after-stink still hung in the air, but at least her eyes had stopped burning. Now she was worried. What if he didn’t come back? Would she slowly starve to death, chained to this wall? How long did it take to starve? There was water in the sink so she could stay hydrated, but she had no body fat to live off of. Would starving be painful?

  She heard her father’s voice say, “Stop whining about the problem! Find a solution.” His military mode had not been easy for a timid little girl to grow up with. Sometimes his efforts to toughen her up had made her feel even more worthless. Or had made her rebel and refuse to take any action. Today, her father’s command brought Jamie to her feet. At first she was unsteady, as the pain from the last assault made her legs tremble. She felt lightheaded too. Jamie shook it off and looked at the chain looped around her waist. It was thick, padlocked to itself and unbreakable. Where was the key? Did Ryan keep it in his pocket, or was it somewhere in this house? If he kept it with him, could she get to it the next time he forced himself on her?

  Jamie looked around for something to strike him with. She had performed this same search before, but she was trying to think differently now. The effort filled her with despair. She had never been in a room this barren. Besides the bed, there was a tall dresser, a little table with a single slim drawer, and an empty closet. The off-white walls held nothing but stains. Could she break one of the legs off the table? Jamie easily lifted the pale pine table and turned it over. She stood on the table’s underside and pushed hard against one of the legs. She tried to use her weight, but the legs were too low to the ground to get much leverage. She pushed harder with her hands, which ached from the cold. The leg didn’t budge.

  Jamie heard a thumping noise and froze. Was he back already? She quickly turned the table over and pushed it to the wall under the blanketed window. He would likely hit her for even thinking about it. Then he would take the table out of the room. She plopped on the bed, heart racing.

  The house was quiet. What had she heard? A tree branch against the siding? The odd thing was that when Ryan left, she hadn’t heard the van start up or the sound of it rolling across a driveway. Had he walked away? Did he park the van somewhere else? She vaguely remembered being carried in over his shoulder.

  Jamie waited a few more minutes, then shuffled over to the dresser and yanked the top drawer completely out. It came so easily she almost lost her balance. The chain weighed her down and kept her in place. She set the drawer down on the bed. If she broke out the back side of it, she could put the drawer back and he wouldn’t know it was damaged. Then she could hide the panel under the bed and wait for an opportunity. She visualized herself grabbing the slim piece of wood and hitting him on the head as he went into the bathroom to fill her glass of water. Then she saw Ryan turn back, eyes blazing, and knock her to the ground.

  The drawer sides were only a quarter-inch thick and didn’t even look like real wood. She couldn’t kill a mouse with one of them. Jamie put the drawer back and shuffled to the closet. She slid the panel door to the side, knowing the small space would be empty. Despite the mold, another bitter odor prevailed. Jamie held her breath and ran her hand to the back of the shelf above the clothes bar. Nothing. She got on her knees and examined the floor. A crack around the perimeter gave her heart a little surge of hope. It was an entrance to the crawl space under the house! With the right tool, she could pry up the chunk of plywood.

  Then what?

  She was still chained to the wall. Jamie fought the tears threatening to overwhelm her. After a moment, she forced herself to stand. At eye level in the open closet was a metal bar that normally would have held hangers. The bar was more than an inch in diameter and could definitely be used as a weapon. Would it come out?

  Jamie looked at the ends and discovered that one end fit loosely into a round piece of metal, while the other lifted right out of its half-circle resting place. She held the cold metal bar in her hands and nearly cried with relief. She could hurt him with this. Jamie knew she would likely die anyway, but she owed it to her father not to go down without a fight. She would make him proud…for the first time in her adult life.

  Chapter 28

  Jackson drove south on the interstate. Monday night, middle of February, and dark as a night in the woods. He had the road almost to himself except for a few long-haul trucks so he pushed his cruiser to eighty. Jackson tried to think like his suspect. If he was having a meltdown, he would seek out family. If he had raped and killed another woman, he might be clearing out of town.

  Had Bodehammer already killed Jamie Conner? The thought made his stomach heave. He’d seen the damage to Raina’s dead body. Jackson didn’t want to believe another young woman had suffered a similar fate. Looking at the situation from the outside, it seemed the women Bodehammer interacted with fell into two camps: the blond girls he took pictures of and the lesbians he raped. Except for Jamie, he didn’t know yet who the blonds were or what, if anything, had happened to them.

  Maybe Bodehammer just liked taking pictures of pretty girls, Jackson speculated. Perhaps he happened to notice Jamie one day when she was at the parole and probation office to see her father. Ryan may have never approached her—or any of the women in the photos.

  They didn’t know for sure that Jamie Conner was missing. Maybe she wasn’t. Jackson wished Ted Conner would call and tell him he’d heard from Jamie or from her friend Paul. Yet if it wasn’t Jamie, some other young woman was in danger. Bodehammer’s behavior was definitely escalating. Each attack was more violent and now he was AWOL. Jackson pressed the accelerator and made the seven-mile trip to Creswell in five minutes. It took him twice as long to find the home of Scott Bodehammer, who lived a few miles out of town on a rural road with no streetlights.

  A yard light was on in the driveway of the renovated farmhouse, but no vehicles were visible and the home seemed dark. Jackson’s chest tightened. Damn. He had really expected to see the blue cargo van sitting in the driveway. He shut off the engine and once again called the number Michelle had given him for Scott B
odehammer. No answer. Jackson left an urgent message, then pondered his next move.

  Could Ryan be inside the house? Maybe he had ditched the van to keep from getting caught. Jackson decided to get out and walk around the perimeter. He reached for his Sig Sauer on the seat next to him. As he opened the door, a big black dog rushed out from between the house and the garage, barking loudly enough to wake the neighborhood. Jackson slammed the car door shut. He had planned to wait for Scott Bodehammer to call or come home, but now that a hundred-and-fifty pound dog was barking next to his car and blowing out his eardrums, he had to rethink his strategy. If Ryan was in the house, he was now aware of Jackson’s presence and had time to hide or run. Damn dog. Jackson touched the scar above his left eye. In his second year on patrol, a Rottweiler had taken a chunk of his flesh when Jackson tried to revive the dog’s drunken-stupor master who was on the brink of rolling into the Amazon canal. Being a good guy didn’t always work out well.

  Jackson endured the barking for two minutes while he watched both sides of the house to see if anyone was running for the field out back. Not that he could see much in the dark or concentrate with the ungodly noise. He started the car and headed out, thinking he could wait somewhere else down the road.

  As he drove away, the barking subsided. A quarter-mile away, a car passed going the other direction. On instinct, Jackson slowed and watched the vehicle in his rearview mirror. It slowed, brake lights glowing, and turned into the driveway he had just come out of. Jackson found a place to turn around and head back. Maybe this would be the break he needed.

  Inside the old farmhouse, he followed the couple to the kitchen. Like Ryan, Scott was blond, blue-eyed, and good looking. His wife, Lisa, was a slightly smaller version of the same. They could have been brother and sister. Lisa offered to make coffee, which Jackson declined. He could have used the caffeine, but he never drank anything from an open container offered by a witness or suspect. Lisa grabbed three bottled waters from the refrigerator and they sat down at the kitchen table. The dog had been locked in the garage.

  “Why are you looking for Ryan?” Scott tried to sound casual, but the crease in his forehead betrayed his concern.

  “We think he may be out of control and hurting women. Gay women.” Jackson watched for a reaction. Scott was not shocked. Crushed was a more apt description.

  “Oh God. I always worried that it would come to this. Once Dad died, it was only a matter of time.” His wife placed a gentle hand on her husband’s back.

  “Do you know where Ryan could be?”

  “Have you checked my dad’s old house? It’s where Ryan grew up. It’s home to him.”

  “Another detective is looking into that possibility.” Jackson looked at his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since the taskforce left the conference room, plenty of time for Schak to drive out to west Eugene and look around an abandoned house. He would have called by now if he had found anything.

  “Anywhere else you can think of?”

  Scott shook his head. “Ryan doesn’t really have any friends. If he knows you’re looking for him, he’s likely to leave town. The five months he spent in jail were devastating to him. They didn’t give him the right medication, and they didn’t protect him. He won’t let himself be easily arrested.”

  Jackson wondered if Ryan had been sexually assaulted in jail. “If he did run, where would he go?”

  Lisa Bodehammer spoke up. “He’s talked about Alaska. About how free it is and how the people there are real Americans.”

  Sadness crept into Scott’s eyes. “Ryan took on my dad’s attitudes and pushed them to an extreme. I think it’s because of his mental illness.”

  “Who prescribes his medications?”

  “He was going to a free clinic called Volunteers in Medicine. The one in the Fred Meyer parking lot. I don’t know the doctor’s name though.”

  Jackson knew the building. It didn’t see a lot of vehicle traffic. “What about the blue van Ryan is driving? It’s not registered to him. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  They shook their blond heads in unison. Scott said, “He likes to keep his name off of paperwork. He gets that from Dad. Keeping the government out of his business.”

  Jackson thought of Bodehammer’s paperless apartment. Frustration made his muscles tense and his temples pound. How would they locate this guy if he went on the run? Jackson opened his bottled water and took a drink. “Can you think of anything else that might help us find him? Young women’s lives could be at stake.”

  Scott leaned forward and put his head in his hands. After a moment, he looked up and said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Ryan and I have never been close, and I haven’t seen him since the funeral. I honestly don’t know where he is or how to find him.”

  Jackson stood. “Do you mind if I look around here? Just to reassure myself that you’re not hiding him?”

  “Go ahead.” It was Lisa who spoke up. Scott tensed, but said nothing.

  Jackson headed down the hall. The house had three bedrooms: one was clearly occupied by Scott and Lisa, one was set up as a guest bedroom with no guest belongings in sight, and the other functioned as a laundry room and closet and was filled with neatly stacked storage items. Jackson peeked in all the closets just to reassure himself. Overall the house was immaculate and did not harbor any guests.

  Back in the living room he handed Scott a card and said, “Call me if you think of anything.” Jackson walked out of the tidy little farmhouse and climbed into his car. He sat for a few minutes trying to get inside Ryan Bodehammer’s head. The photos in his apartment indicated that the suspect was sexually attracted to young blond women. At least, in theory, that’s who he liked to look at. Maybe he lacked the self-confidence to approach them. So he raped lesbians, who were not sexually intimidating to him. But psychologists and profilers agreed that rape was more about punishment than sex. Bodehammer was clearly punishing lesbians who took poetry classes from his ex-stepmother, a lesbian who had betrayed him.

  So where did Jamie fit into this psychodrama?

  She was young and blond and probably gay. Did that make her the ideal victim? A female Bodehammer was attracted to—who also needed to be punished? No one had seen her since yesterday. If Ryan had raped and killed her already, why hadn’t her body turned up yet? Bodehammer had left Raina at the edge of town, where she would be found the next day. Had he taken more time to hide Jamie’s body?

  Jackson felt a stab of pain in his lower intestine—a stress stomachache coming on. He reached in the glove box for a Tums. He hoped he wasn’t making Scott and his wife uncomfortable. He would leave in a moment. He had the nagging feeling there was something else he needed to ask them. First he needed to work through the basics of this case to formulate the question.

  Something about Raina’s scenario still bothered him. The fact that Ryan had tracked her out to Gorman’s trailer was a natural escalation of his stalking patterns with the first two victims. The excessive blows to the head, resulting in her death, were also an escalation of his rage and violence. The assault with the vibrator could have been an additional punishment or the only kind of rape Bodehammer was capable of because he was becoming impotent. Which happened sometimes when men were medicated or mentally messed up.

  What still didn’t fit?

  The .22 bullet in Raina’s tire. Bodehammer would have had to carry the weapon with him in the van. A risky move for someone on parole, Jackson thought. Of course, so were rape and murder. It also seemed odd because Bodehammer’s criminal history didn’t include any possession or use of firearms. Acquiring a weapon could also be part of his escalating violence. Bodehammer was off his meds and paranoid, so maybe he bought or stole a gun.

  Jackson jumped out of his car and went back to the front door. The dog began to bark in the garage. The door came open as he reached up to knock. “Did you forget something?” Scott still looked worried.

  “Did Ryan own a .22 rifle?”

  Scott pulled back, surprised. “I
don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never heard him talk about owning a gun. Did someone get shot?”

  “No.” Jackson thought for a moment. “Did Ryan know how to use a gun? Did he ever do any target practice?”

  “Not as a kid, not when I still lived at home. I didn’t see Dad and Ryan very often after I moved out, but in the last few years I saw them more often. They never talked about guns.”