Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  He jogged up the sidewalk toward the main entrance. The intentionally nondescript gray brick building sat on the back curve of the street and sported good visibility on all sides. Its one vulnerability, the windows in the reception area, had been blown out, and a gaping hole exposed its soft yellow inside. A twenty-something Asian woman in light blue scrubs ran out the front door, spotted him immediately, and sprinted down the sidewalk.

  She grabbed his arm. “We need an ambulance. Someone’s hurt badly.”

  Jackson started to reach for his cell phone, but in the distance he could hear the wail of the ambulance screaming up West 11th Avenue. Another patrol unit careened into the parking lot and almost hit a blue Toyota pulling out of its space. Jackson motioned for the officer behind the wheel to roll down his window.

  “Secure the perimeter,” he yelled. “ Don’t let that car leave. And don’t let anyone in that group near the sidewalk leave.”

  As he looked over at the huddled clinic workers, his eye caught a group of protestors across the street, at the edge of the shopping center. Their signs hung limply at their sides as they stared back at the clinic. “And bring those protestors back over here for questioning.”

  Then it hit him. This bomb seemed almost inevitable. A few months earlier, one of Portland’s abortion clinics had been rocked by violent protests, followed by several pipe bomb explosions. The statewide group that sponsored the Portland protests had a chapter here in town. In hindsight, it was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to Eugene’s new clinic. Jackson was glad that his daughter was only fourteen and that he didn’t have to worry about her coming to Planned Parenthood for many years.

  He turned back to the clinic and started up the front walkway. Shards of white-tinted glass and mangled azalea branches covered the narrow lawn and spilled onto the cement path. The smell of gunpowder wafted past on a warm gust of wind. The combination reminded him of summer afternoons at the firing range.

  Once inside, Jackson found himself in a small glass-walled foyer with a camera mounted above the door. But the security system was unmanned at the moment, and he pushed through the unlocked door into the waiting area. Near the massive hole in the front wall, two clinic workers huddled over a young female client, who, from where he stood, looked lifeless. Blood pooled in the area around her head. Jackson rushed over, past the twisted chairs and scattered debris, desperately trying to recall his first aid training. The women weren’t wearing white, so Jackson asked, “Is either of you a nurse or doctor?”

  The older of the two looked up quickly and said, “I’m a nurse.” She wore her hair pulled into a ponytail and her makeup-less face was drained of color. “But I can’t do much here.”

  Jackson was close enough to see the injured girl now, with her Goth-black hair, delicate features, and Green Day T-shirt. A chunk of glass thrust out of her neck and the blood flowed freely around it. The nurse pressed white strips of cloth to both sides of the wound. The injured girl’s eyes fluttered open, then closed again. She didn’t look much older than his daughter.

  “I’m afraid to remove it,” the nurse said, her voice almost a whisper. “If I do, she could bleed to death.”

  They all heard the ambulance then, its siren cutting off as it entered the parking lot. For a moment, silence settled over the room. Then a sparrow burst through the opening in the wall and began chirping wildly as it swooped around looking for an exit. For a second, the bird drew their attention away from the bleeding girl. A moment later, paramedics charged through the foyer door, and Jackson gladly stepped back.

  “Is anyone else hurt?” he asked the nurse.

  “One of our staff is down in the hallway.”

  Jackson moved quickly to the end of the counter, around the corner, and into the wide hall.

  Another female lay prone on the crème-and-gray tile floor, attended to by a tall woman in a tailored black blazer. Jackson recognized her as the clinic’s director, Sheila Brentwood. He had met her at a fundraiser last year, an event his soon-to-be-ex wife had dragged him to. Sheila nodded to him but didn’t speak.

  “Is she all right?”

  The prone woman sat up. Through the skylight, the sun lit up her copper-colored hair, which fell in a braid nearly to her waist. Even seated on the floor with a bloodied forehead, she looked strong and athletic.

  “I felt dizzy for a few minutes. But really, I’m all right.” She tried to smile, but didn’t make it. Her wide-set hazel eyes held a sadness that went deeper than this incident.

  “The paramedics will be right with you. I’m going to check out the rest of the building.”

  Sheila stood and said, “I think it’s empty now. I asked everyone to stay outside and speak with the police when they got here, but I’m afraid a few of our younger patients may have left. And who could blame them?” She gave him a thin, determined smile.

  “Once we’ve secured the building, I’ll need a place to conduct interviews,” Jackson said. “And a list of everyone that was here at the time of the explosion. And anyone in the parking lot, if they’re still here.”

  Jackson moved off and began to search the rooms—for more injured victims or even the bomber, who could be hiding somewhere. But he knew that was wishful thinking. The Portland police had failed to identify their bomber, even with the help of the FBI. Meanwhile, they had beefed up security around all the clinics, but one had eventually closed. Jackson made a mental note to suggest to Sheila that she hire a full-time security guard. If this was the work of the same person or group, there was more to come.

  Over her protests, two good-sized paramedics hauled Kera outside on a canvas stretcher. She was relieved to be outside and back in touch with fresh air and blue sky, but she would rather have walked. The ambulance carrying the injured client pulled away from the clinic as the medics transferred Kera to a metal gurney on wheels. They were near the back end of a second ambulance, but she had no intention of getting in and riding to the hospital. After they checked her vital statistics, Kera pushed to her feet.

  “I’m fine, really. In fact, I’d like to walk around for a moment.”

  “Doctors and nurses make the worst patients.” The young man in the dark blue uniform grinned, then said somberly, “I think you need a CAT scan for your head.”

  Kera smiled back. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Without thinking, she moved toward the street and away from the building. Her legs trembled with a cellular memory of the blast. It had been so unexpected. So otherworldly and overpowering. Then it hit her like a punch in the gut. Nathan must have experienced something very similar during the moment his convoy was hit. Her son had not survived, though. The car bombs in Iraq were intended to do much more damage than what had happened in the lobby here.

  Not now, she told herself. With all her mental discipline, Kera pulled her thoughts away from Nathan. She had to stay focused on what was happening to the clinic, to help her co-workers get through this, to help them find the courage to come back to work. As the chaos around her escalated—with more police cars arriving and a ring of onlookers gathering across the street—Kera stood on the grass and took long slow pulls of oxygen, breathing from deep in her abdomen. She had learned the technique from a grief counselor, and it had become part of the fabric of her life.

  As Kera turned back toward the clinic, a white news van lurched to a stop on the pavement a few feet away. A young blond woman jumped out, followed by a middle-aged man with an oversized video camera. The reporter, who looked like a high school girl on career day, rushed up to Kera and asked breathlessly, “Do you work at the clinic?”

  “Yes. But you should speak with our director for a comment.”

  “We’ll never get past the cops in the parking lot,” she gushed. Her bright blue eyes sparked with excitement. Behind her, the cameraman was setting up his equipment on a tripod.

  “Please give me a quick statement. I’m Trina Waterman with KRSL TV.”

  Kera shrugged. “Okay, a quick
one. I need to get back in there and see how I can help.”

  “First, who are you and what do you do here?” Trina held out her microphone.

  “Kera Kollmorgan. I’m a registered nurse and the clinic’s Youth Outreach Coordinator.”

  “I notice you have a bandage on your head. Were you near the bomb when it went off?”

  The camera was rolling now, but Kera was at ease. As the clinic’s outreach person, she’d given on-air interviews before. “Not really. The repercussion made me lose my footing though, and I fell.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “A young girl is on her way to the hospital now. She has a chunk of glass sticking out of her neck.”

  “Who do you think did this?” Trina cranked up her intensity for the camera.

  “A fanatic with no regard for human life.”

  “Will the clinic shut down?”

  “Of course not,” Kera said. “Our services are vital to women in this community.” Just then, a patrol cop in a dark blue uniform rushed up and shouted at the news crews to get back. Kera took the opportunity to terminate the interview and head back toward the building.

  As she weaved through the half dozen patrol cars choking the parking lot, Andrea rushed up to her. “Where were you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. How’s the girl who was hurt?”

  “The paramedics said it nicked her carotid artery.”

  Kera bit her lip. “What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca Dunn.”

  Kera didn’t think she had ever met her. “What now?”

  Andrea shrugged. “The detective wants to speak with you. He’s in Sheila’s office.”

  Detective Jackson looked up quickly from the desk. “You’re feeling better?” Sheila’s office was up-scale by nonprofit standards: It had carpeting and a small window.

  “I am. Thanks.”

  “Kera Kollmorgan, right?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t read his dark eyes. Was he irritated? Had she kept him waiting? Kera took a seat on the other side of her boss’ desk and looked him over. She decided he looked like a typical cop with his navy blue slacks and almost matching suit jacket. The white shirt underneath was open at the collar, and his face was pleasant with a strong jaw and full lips. A small white scar tugged at the corner of his left eye.

  “Where were you when the bomb went off?”

  “Right there in the hallway where you saw me. I lost my balance and fell.” Kera looked down at her shoes. “My Birkenstocks have lost all their tread.”

  “Did you see anyone or anything suspicious before the explosion?”

  “No. I was with a patient.” The scent of Sheila’s lavender perfume hung in the air. Kera thought she might sneeze.

  “Have you seen anyone unusual around the clinic lately? Someone who doesn’t look like they belong? Or who has been here too often?” He bounced his pen on the desk as he fired off questions.

  Kera gave it some thought. “There was a young man in the lobby yesterday afternoon. Of course, we get some guys in here, but not many. He was just waiting for his girlfriend, but the tattoo caught my eye.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Thick dark triangles along his neck.” She gestured with her hands. “But he was just sitting in the chairs, not acting suspicious in any way. I shouldn’t have mentioned him. Tattoos are pretty mainstream these days.” She had a small bronze-and-turquoise sun on her left shoulder, a present to herself from Thailand twenty years ago.

  “Have you received any threatening calls or letters lately?’

  Kera shook her head. Not unless she counted the “I’m not coming back” letter her husband had sent from Iraq last week.

  “Have any of your patients made any threats or said anything disturbing recently?”

  “About five months ago, a patient’s mother called and said she would ‘bitch slap me silly’ if I ever gave birth control to her daughter again.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “And did you?”

  “The patient has not been back.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I can’t divulge patient information.”

  Those dark eyes tried to intimidate her. “I can get a search warrant.”

  “You’ll have to.” She smiled to show it wasn’t personal.

  “Okay. That’s it for now. You should go home and rest. Ms. Brentwood said you hit your head hard enough to black out.”

  “I’m fine. I come from a long line of thick-skulled Dutch people. You know that song that was popular a few years back? I get knocked down, but I get up again… That’s me.”

  “You don’t look thick skulled.” He smiled, and his eyes finally lit up. Kera decided he was okay. “Take care, Ms. Kollmorgan.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Kera had no desire to go home. But staying at the damaged clinic made no sense either. Most of the staff had gone, and they certainly weren’t taking any clients this afternoon. Kera gathered her sweater and purse and walked out with Andrea.

  “Do you want to stop at Taylor’s with me and have a glass of wine?” Kera asked when they reached the parking lot.

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got to pick up the kids.”

  Police officers were still searching the property and questioning some of the protestors as Kera drove away. A wave of despair washed over her. She still found it hard to come home to an empty house, and today would be more difficult than most.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, October 19, 2:52 p.m.

  Kera hung her sweater in the front closet, then walked through the living areas and stood gazing out her back windows, which had a partial view of the city below. She was grateful for her bright sunlit home and comfortable furnishings. Five years in Uganda witnessing soul-crushing poverty had taught her not to take anything for granted. The simple act of turning on a faucet and having hot water come out still made her smile.

  But she was not used to the silence and sterility—no radio playing in the background, no lingering smell of burnt toast. Sometimes it felt more like a plush hotel suite than a home. Looking down at the busy streets only served to remind her that she was alone. But she had not ended up that way overnight, and so she’d had some time to adjust.

  Soon after high school, Nathan had joined the Army, leaving a vacuum that had once been filled by young laughter and loud music. Kera had fought his decision with every piece of logic she could muster, but Nathan was an independent and patriotic young man who wanted to make his own way in the world. At first, he’d been stationed at Fort Wainwright in Alaska, and Kera had been so relieved, she’d refused to let herself feel sad about his absence. Two months later, 9/11 happened, and her life, as she knew it, began to slide into the abyss.

  First, her husband Daniel had started to drift—working late, keeping to himself, and talking about finding a new purpose in life. That plateau of uncertainty—married but feeling more and more alone—had gone on for nearly a year. Then in August, Nathan had shipped out to Iraq, and a week later, the men in uniform had come to her door. Kera had been alone then too, and she began to weep even before they opened their mouths. Nathan, who had trained as a medic—following in his parents’ footsteps—had been killed on his second day in Iraq while transporting wounded soldiers to an airfield.

  Kera felt the tears spring hot and bitter to her cheeks. Her son and best friend was gone forever, and there was a hole in her life that could never be healed. Daniel, inconsolable in his grief, had deserted her two weeks after Nathan’s funeral, heading for Iraq “to find purpose in his life.”

  Kera wiped away her tears. She had to stop letting it pull her down. There were millions of people in worse shape—people who were not only lonely, but cold, hungry, and homeless too.

  She changed out of her work clothes into some baggy cotton tie-dyes, then grabbed a can of Diet Dr Pepper from the fridge and sat down in front of her computer. The Internet was her refuge. It connected her to people everywhere. Some were silly
and self-involved, but most were reaching out in a passionate and generous embrace of the world around them.

  Kera logged on to www.1stheadlines.com. She needed to know what had changed in the world while she was at work. She had been a news junkie since college, but in the last three years, the news had become an obsession. The wars, the terrorists, the right-wing fanatics; it was critical to keep track of the things that threatened her.

  She scanned the headlines, noting that her husband had not been killed or kidnapped in Iraq. Kera suspected that on some grief-stricken level, Daniel wanted to die and that his stay in the war zone was really a suicide mission.

  Impulsively, Kera popped out of her chair and began to pace. She couldn’t get today’s explosion out of her mind. Had they really meant to hurt someone or was it a scare tactic gone wrong? She thought of the bomber as “they” because of the clinic’s protestors and the extremist group they belonged to, the Conservative Culture Alliance.

  Kera hurried into the kitchen and used the wall phone to call the patient information line at North McKenzie Hospital. “This is Kera Kollmorgan, a nurse from Planned Parenthood. I’m calling about Rebecca Dunn. She was brought into the emergency room this afternoon. I’d like to know how she’s doing.”

  “Let me check for you.” After a moment, the receptionist said, “She’s still in intensive care. I can put you through to the charge nurse there.”

  “Please do.”

  The nurse took a long time to come to the phone. “What’s your relationship to the patient?” she asked.

  “I’m a nurse at Planned Parenthood. Rebecca was a client in our clinic when she was injured.”

  “I’m sorry to report that Rebecca is in a coma.”

  Kera bit down on the inside of her mouth. She had worked in emergency rooms and knew what that meant. “What’s her prognosis?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But she lost a lot of blood.”

  “Has her family been contacted?”