Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  Damn. Jackson’s frustration jolted up a notch. Except for the trace evidence, the wife looked good for both homicides. “Find out what she drives and push the paperwork for the court order to see her.”

  “Anything else?” Jackson asked

  McCray spoke up. “I did a background check on Fieldstone’s eyewitness like you asked me to. He’s been investigated for fraud twice. So his credibility is crap.”

  “Thanks. I needed to hear that.” Jackson threw in his bad news. “Nicole’s lab results are mystifying. None of the trace evidence matches the DNA in Jessie’s death. It’s like we’re dealing with a whole new perpetrator. Which knocks down all of our current scenarios.”

  “A copycat crime?” McCray offered.

  “Or an opportunistic crime.” Jackson checked his notes from Debbie’s call. “Another thing. There was cat hair on Nicole’s clothes. But the Clarkes don’t have a cat. Anyone remember a cat in any of the homes you’ve visited?”

  Evans laughed. “I have a cat. So do several of the tenants in the Regency Apartments. As does Ian Marcowitz, the Clarkes’ neighbor who saw the van in the driveway.”

  “Maybe the neighbor is trying to throw us off. Get back over there. Get a sample of that cat hair.” Jackson had been feeling a sense of urgency all morning. Now his chest tightened in a painful grip. “Any other cats?”

  Schak shook his head. “Do the mayor and his wife have a cat?”

  “Good question.” Jackson made a note in his casebook. “I’ll find out. I need to talk to him again anyway. As it turns out, he is the father of Jessie’s baby.”

  Evans slapped her notebook. “That makes the statutory rape charge a slam dunk.”

  “And ruins his lawsuit.” Schak made a face that showed he was not above gloating.

  Jackson wasn’t ready to celebrate. There was still something going on in these cases that he had not yet wrapped his head around. Something big still loomed out there. He looked at his team. “Evans, go back to the Clarkes’ neighbors. Schak and McCray, you guys get back to the church people, looking for cats. And maroon minivans. Call me with anything significant.”

  Jackson dreaded this next moment. “At the press conference yesterday it became obvious that someone is leaking details of these cases to the media. I find it hard to believe that it is anybody in this room, yet who else has the information?”

  The group was silent. Evans and Schakowski each gave him a hairy eye, but McCray just looked tired. Jackson couldn’t read either Fouts or Morales.

  “Any ideas how information might be getting out there? Anybody sharing their discoveries with another detective or officer?”

  “No.” Schak was the only one to respond verbally. McCray and Evans shook their heads.

  “I shouldn’t have to say this. Be careful with your notes. Do not talk to anyone about these cases. Do not sabotage our efforts. These young girls deserve justice.”

  As he stepped out of the conference room, the front desk officer informed Jackson that the chief was looking for him. Jackson’s stomach reacted with a sharp pain. This would not be good.

  He stepped into the corner office and could feel the chill in the air. Warner did not get up or display any expression. “Have a seat, Jackson, but don’t get comfortable. This won’t take long.”

  Oh shit.

  “In simple language, I’m pulling you off these homicides,” Warner deadpanned. “Schak will take the lead, and you will go back into the rotation.”

  Chapter 36

  Jackson’s heart missed a beat. “May I ask why, sir?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.” Warner scowled. “Your press conference yesterday set off a media frenzy about Fieldstone. You sabotaged his career. And I specifically instructed you not to. It’s insubordination, and it’s grounds for dismissal.”

  Jackson swallowed hard. “Slonecker filed the charges, sir. Sergeant Lammers instructed me to hold a press conference. I couldn’t lie. The arraignment records are open to the public.”

  “You could have played down the mayor’s charges.” Warner shook his head in disgust. “And you should not have told the media that Jessie was pregnant. I no longer trust you to handle these cases.”

  “I didn’t tell them, sir. I don’t know where they got that information.” Jackson started to feel desperate. “I’m about to make a breakthrough. Pulling me right now is a mistake.”

  “Bullshit. And don’t tell me I’m making a mistake or I’ll put you on leave of absence too.”

  Jackson couldn’t accept the idea that he would have to step down. It was not in his nature to give up or let go. “I just got the lab results on Jessie Davenport’s fetus. The DNA matches Fieldstone. She was pregnant with his child.”

  The chief was silent. Jackson said a little prayer.

  “Shit.” Warner was at a loss for words.

  “Give me some more time,” Jackson implored.

  “Stay away from the mayor.”

  Jackson could not promise that, so he said, “Thank you, sir,” and quickly walked out.

  Jackson headed straight to the skate park near the Amazon ball fields. His stomach was growling, but food would have to wait. Nicole’s phone records had not come through yet, and he wanted to know who she had talked to the night she was killed. His gut told him that Janice Fieldstone may have called.

  He had stopped by the park this morning with Travis Walters, Jeremy’s friend and conspirator, but Jeremy had not been around. Afterward, they’d stopped by Jeremy’s house and picked up a photo of him, so Jackson could find Jeremy later on his own.

  And there he was, hanging out at the four-foot cement outer wall, gesturing wildly to another boy in the telling of some story. Jeremy was five-six, lean but sinewy, and his curly dark hair was cut close to his scalp. He had an infectious grin, even for a cop coming his way while he skipped school.

  He hitched up his jeans as he spoke. “Are you looking for me?”

  “Jeremy Carson?”

  “Yea.” He nodded. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s take a short walk.”

  About half way across the lawn, Jeremy announced, “This is far enough. I’m not getting in your car.”

  Jackson lost his patience and yelled. “You smell like weed. That’s probable cause to search and arrest you. But I don’t give a shit about stoners because I’m trying to find a killer. So give me the dead girl’s phone right now. Don’t waste any more of my time being cute.”

  Jeremy gave him an all-teeth grin. “You could have just asked nicely.” He produced the phone from deep in a pocket on the left leg of his cargo pants. “I only made a couple calls.”

  Jackson pulled on gloves from his bag before taking it. “Did you kill Nicole?” He watched the boy’s eyes.

  “No way. I never even met her, and I had no reason to hurt her.”

  “I want a DNA sample. Will you come into the department tomorrow and give one?”

  Jeremy shrugged, unsure. “Uh, okay. If it will clear me.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Jackson headed back to his car. Homicide statistics said that the person who reported finding the body was often the perpetrator. But those were typically domestic situations, among family members. Instinct told him that Travis and Jeremy were just stoners who stumbled on a dead girl and had the momentary respectability to call it in.

  Back in the Impala, he flipped open the phone and hit the Menu key, then pressed the Calls selection. From that menu, he selected Incoming, the second-line choice. A list of eight calls showed on the small screen with more available through scrolling. The top number—the most recent call—looked familiar. Jackson down-scrolled to the number and clicked OK. The screen lit up with Rachel Greiner across the top, with the phone number repeated on the second line. The third line of type contained the time and date: 6:22p Sun Oct. 24.

  Rachel had lied to him when she said she hadn’t talked to Nicole on Sunday night. But why? Who was she protecting? He would have to get back to her about t
hat.

  Jackson scanned the list of recent calls but didn’t see Janice Fieldstone’s number. He was disappointed but not ready to give up. It was time for another talk with the mayor.

  Chapter 37

  Wednesday, October 27, 3:05 p.m.

  A young woman in her early twenties opened the door, and Jackson could see that she was Fieldstone’s daughter. She had the same dark eyes and glowing skin. She scowled at Jackson but let him in.

  “How is Mrs. Fieldstone?” Jackson tried to disarm a potentially hostile situation.

  “She cracked up. I thought you knew.” The young woman walked him back to the den.

  “Dad, your favorite cop is here to see you again.”

  Fieldstone was staring at a home remodeling show. He looked up at Jackson and shook his head, then gestured for him to come sit on the couch. Jackson sat. Fieldstone muted the TV but didn’t turn it off.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Jackson.” The mayor spoke the words carefully but couldn’t mask his whiskey-sour breath.

  “Mr. Fieldstone.” Jackson nodded. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Sure. I’m on vacation. I’ve got lots of time.”

  Jackson reached in his shoulder bag for his recorder. “Do you mind if I tape? It’s so much easier than taking notes.”

  Fieldstone shrugged, so Jackson started the mini-cassette. “We have all the lab results now. They don’t look good for you.”

  “I imagine not.”

  Jackson glanced at the door, where the daughter stood in the opening. “Please close the door,” he said. She looked at her father with disgust, then sharply pulled it shut.

  Jackson spoke gently. He was here to sympathize, to nudge. If Janice Fieldstone had killed the girls, the mayor probably knew about it. And probably felt somewhat responsible. “We know you had sex with Jessie right before she died. You left body hair on her pubis. And she was suffocated with a sheet that matches the sheets in your apartment. You’ll get a life sentence unless you tell me what really happened. Start with when your wife stopped into the apartment and caught you with Jessie.”

  The mayor looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your wife. She killed the girls didn’t she? Jealousy can be a powerful emotion.”

  Fieldstone emphatically shook his head.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The mayor’s handsome face was distorted with alcohol and despair. His eyes watered copiously. He stood slowly and headed for the mini-bar in the corner of the room. Fieldstone came back with a tumbler full of ice and what looked like whiskey.

  “My wife had nothing to do with this.”

  “The baby was yours,” Jackson threw out. “I got the DNA test this morning. A son.”

  Fieldstone hurled the full tumbler across the room. It missed the TV and broke against the wall. His daughter, who must have been right outside the door, burst in. She looked at her father, then at the mess of glass and booze, then at Jackson.

  “Get out,” she yelled at Jackson. It was both a command and a plea.

  “No, you get out.” The mayor shouted back, his voice hoarse and pathetic. The daughter backed away. Jackson was upset by the distraction. He thought the mayor had been on the verge of talking.

  Jackson said nothing while Fieldstone poured himself another drink. But the mayor didn’t return to the couch. Instead he paced the room, pausing in front of the windows that faced the lush backyard and the forest beyond.

  “I could have been a senator,” he said finally. “But I was weak and lonely. Does that seem strange to you? To be married and lonely?” He turned back to Jackson, clearly needing some empathy.

  Jackson didn’t have to fake it. “I was married and lonely for a long time. It’s like being in a box with the only exit leading to more loneliness, and a big dose of stress and guilt.”

  Fieldstone gave a little laugh. “I found another exit. It cured my loneliness, but it also led to stress and guilt.”

  “Tell me about Jessie. She must have been quite a girl.”

  Fieldstone hesitated for a moment, then—looking for redemption—began his story.

  He had noticed Jessie the summer before at the First Bible Baptist’s annual potluck picnic, held at Armitage Park on the McKenzie River. She was blond and pretty and tall for her age. Jessie reminded him of his wife, Janice, when she was young, whom he had met in high school and married soon after. He couldn’t believe Jessie was only thirteen and a half. The way she moved and smiled and spoke was beyond her years. She was confident and friendly, complimenting Fieldstone on his softball skills. When they were alone together at the beverage coolers, she flirted with him, flicking her perfectly straight hair off her shoulders and smiling coyly.

  Fieldstone had been flattered. He was used to being flirted with—it came with his job and his good looks—but that a girl so young would find someone his age attractive appealed to his vanity and his fear of aging.

  “She came on to me,” Fieldstone said emphatically. “From that first day. She touched me in church. She rubbed against me at a garage-sale fundraiser. She teased me for months, and I resisted. Oh, I enjoyed it. I had not experienced that kind of sexual anticipation in a long time.” Fieldstone smiled dryly. “The curse of man.”

  The apartment, he swore, was meant only as a place to escape to during long workdays and for his parents to use when they came to town. But then one time, at a prayer breakfast, Jessie had expressed a need for a place to get away from her mother. Fieldstone had invited her to his apartment. They had agreed to meet there after school, a safe place where she could talk about her problems.

  The talking hadn’t lasted long. Jessie had her tongue in his ear within five minutes of walking in the door, he claimed. Thirty minutes later, Fieldstone was naked, spent, and stunned at what he had just done. But Jessie’s obvious sexual experience mitigated his guilt. He had not taken her virginity. Or even been asked politely if he wanted to tango.

  “I know this sounds like blaming the victim, but believe me, that girl was a sexual force. She was the aggressor. At least at first.” Fieldstone sucked down the remains of his drink. “I got hooked though. In fact,” he looked at Jackson with guileless eyes, “I fell in love with her.”

  Jackson’s thoughts went immediately to the orange panties he’d found in the mayor’s robe in the apartment bathroom. They didn’t belong to Jessie or Nicole. Were they Janice Fieldstone’s or was the mayor a serial cheat? Jackson kept his thoughts to himself and let the man continue. He hoped the mayor would get to Jessie’s death before the tape reached the end and needed to be flipped over. Fieldstone had probably forgotten that he was being recorded, and Jackson didn’t want to remind him.

  Their sex play had become experimental. Fieldstone wanted to try everything his prudish Christian wife wouldn’t do, and Jessie was game. They were both into bondage, with Jessie being the one who liked to be tied up. Toward the end, though, Jessie had started showing up at their Tuesday trysts high on Vicodin. Fieldstone had mixed feelings about her recreational drug use. It made her sexually more pliable, but he missed the spark in her eyes and the sharp banter they had exchanged.

  Yeah, Jackson thought, You were in it for the conversation.

  The mayor continued his story. The last time they were together, Jessie had been high again. But Fieldstone hadn’t realized just how much she’d taken. He had tied her to the bed, face down as usual. He wanted to have anal sex, but Jessie said no, and that surprised him. She said she was too sore. And he realized that she’d been with someone else. Maybe even that day.

  “At first, the idea of it bothered me,” Fieldstone admitted. “But I let it go. After all, I was still giving it to my wife every once in a while. And Jessie and I never talked about fidelity to each other.”

  So they’d had vaginal sex, with Jessie face down on the bed, a pillow under her hips. Fieldstone had been excited, strangely turned on by thinking about another guy with his dick in her ass. He’d taken a
Viagra earlier, so the encounter had gone on for a long time, maybe forty minutes. He remembered pushing on her shoulders, maybe even the back of her head. He remembered that she became kind of quiet, which was unusual for her. But he was caught up in his own passion and didn’t stop until he climaxed.

  “Afterward, I said her name. I worried that she hadn’t had her usual noisy orgasm.” He closed his eyes at the memory. “She didn’t respond. I slapped her ass playfully, and she didn’t even flinch. Then I got scared.”

  “I untied Jessie and rolled her over on her back. Her eyes were open, but vacant. I grabbed her face and shouted at her to wake up. But it was too late.” Fieldstone choked back a sob. “I felt for a pulse, but she didn’t have one.”

  “She must have passed out from the Vicodin while we were screwing,” he said, his voice wrecked with alcohol, grief, and shame. “Somehow, her air must have been cut off. The sheet was bunched up around her face, and maybe I held her too hard. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Fieldstone began to sob. “I was devastated. I loved her.”

  “Tell me what happened next.”

  The mayor wiped his face with his bathrobe sleeve and tried to control himself. “At first I couldn’t even think straight. I held her in my arms and cried.”

  But when the mayor’s brain did kick in, it went into self-preservation mode. He had a career to think about. He could do a lot of good in the world as a politician. Nothing would be served by his spending twenty years in prison, he rationalized. So he douched her vagina to rinse his sperm out and combed her pubic area to eliminate his hair. Then he stuffed her body into one garbage bag, and her clothes and backpack into another.

  Fieldstone had pulled on a baseball cap and sunglasses—which he often wore when coming and going from the apartment—and went out to the parking lot to turn his car around. With the trunk backed up next to the front door, he carried the bags out to the car and dumped her in. He knew it would have been better to wait until dark, but he had a city council meeting that he could not miss. And other people had keys to the apartment: his assistant Mariska, the apartment manager, and his parents. Leaving her body there for six hours was a risk he couldn’t take.