Read Online Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club by L. J. Sellers - Free Book Online
Authors: L. J. Sellers
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Idaho and Illinois, the young women (eighteen and nineteen) had been raped before being left in a dumpster and a landfill, respectively. And another case, in which the victim had been suffocated, involved a thirty-three year old woman who had been raped and beaten first. Neither was a good match. The lack of obvious violence in Jessie’s case was an anomaly.
Sipping his coffee and hoping the Vivarin would hit soon, Jackson typed all his handwritten notes into a Word document, then made lists of leads to follow up and people to interview. The typing skills had come to him slowly, grudgingly, over the years. His thick fingers were too big for the keypads and he had to look at the numbers every time, but the skill was invaluable. It allowed him to expand his fractional descriptions and thoughts into a detailed and highly readable document.
Finally, he hit print, picked up his paperwork, and headed for the small conference room where the Jessie task force was scheduled to meet at 9 a.m.
The room was claustrophobically small but uncluttered, containing only a dozen folding chairs and a single podium. A five-foot-long, dry-erase board ran across one wall. It would be used to map everything and everyone connected to the case.
Evans was the first to arrive. She looked surprisingly good for someone who had probably slept less than three hours. But then Evans took good care of herself. She was lean and muscular and worked out regularly.
“Anything on the background checks?” Jackson asked as Evans settled into a chair, tall premium coffee in hand.
“Nothing noteworthy.” She shook her head. “One tenant, Louis Frank, has a long history of theft and drug possession, but nothing for the last two years and no sex or violent crimes ever. Lives with his girlfriend and works at a door-making factory.”
McCray and Schakowski hustled in, both also cradling tall coffee cups from one of the dozens of vendors that had sprung up on every corner in town. Jackson wondered how much money the four of them spent on caffeine every day.
“Schak, you showered. Nice.” Evans teased him about spending half the night picking through garbage.
The big guy flopped into a chair, his barrel-shaped body hanging over the sides. “Trash digging pays. I found her clothes and backpack in the dumpster behind the dry cleaners at the end of the alley.”
The update was for the benefit of Evans and McCray. Jackson had seen the evidence in the predawn hours when Schak brought it in. The denim skirt, striped sweater, and pink flip-flops were on their way to the state crime lab in Springfield. The backpack’s contents were still in the department, awaiting fingerprint analysis, but unfortunately, the girl’s cell phone was not in the mix.
“Anything, McCray?”
The older detective was lean and gray and had a pleasant but well-lived-in face. He was also fond of brown corduroy. McCray was tenacious but not competitive, a rare combination in law enforcement.
“Jose Sanchez, age thirty-one in unit twelve of the Oakwood Apartments, has two assault charges and recently finished a ten-month stretch in the county jail,” he reported. “Both his assault victims were males around his age. Bar fights is my guess. He also had a warrant for failure to report to his parole officer. I sent a patrol to pick him up.”
Sanchez didn’t sound like a solid suspect. Jackson told the group, “I’ve got Pete Casaway compiling a list of known sex offenders who live within a five-mile radius of Jessie’s home and/or the dump site, which are less than two miles apart.” He turned to Evans. “Did you get the prints made?”
“Yep.” She handed each of them a stack of four-by-five headshots of Jessie. Jackson was surprised to see how grown up Jessie looked in the photos. Was it the effect of makeup? Or had she changed that much in six months?
“Let’s go back to the apartments and show everyone the photos. Start with the units where you didn’t find anyone home
Sipping his coffee and hoping the Vivarin would hit soon, Jackson typed all his handwritten notes into a Word document, then made lists of leads to follow up and people to interview. The typing skills had come to him slowly, grudgingly, over the years. His thick fingers were too big for the keypads and he had to look at the numbers every time, but the skill was invaluable. It allowed him to expand his fractional descriptions and thoughts into a detailed and highly readable document.
Finally, he hit print, picked up his paperwork, and headed for the small conference room where the Jessie task force was scheduled to meet at 9 a.m.
The room was claustrophobically small but uncluttered, containing only a dozen folding chairs and a single podium. A five-foot-long, dry-erase board ran across one wall. It would be used to map everything and everyone connected to the case.
Evans was the first to arrive. She looked surprisingly good for someone who had probably slept less than three hours. But then Evans took good care of herself. She was lean and muscular and worked out regularly.
“Anything on the background checks?” Jackson asked as Evans settled into a chair, tall premium coffee in hand.
“Nothing noteworthy.” She shook her head. “One tenant, Louis Frank, has a long history of theft and drug possession, but nothing for the last two years and no sex or violent crimes ever. Lives with his girlfriend and works at a door-making factory.”
McCray and Schakowski hustled in, both also cradling tall coffee cups from one of the dozens of vendors that had sprung up on every corner in town. Jackson wondered how much money the four of them spent on caffeine every day.
“Schak, you showered. Nice.” Evans teased him about spending half the night picking through garbage.
The big guy flopped into a chair, his barrel-shaped body hanging over the sides. “Trash digging pays. I found her clothes and backpack in the dumpster behind the dry cleaners at the end of the alley.”
The update was for the benefit of Evans and McCray. Jackson had seen the evidence in the predawn hours when Schak brought it in. The denim skirt, striped sweater, and pink flip-flops were on their way to the state crime lab in Springfield. The backpack’s contents were still in the department, awaiting fingerprint analysis, but unfortunately, the girl’s cell phone was not in the mix.
“Anything, McCray?”
The older detective was lean and gray and had a pleasant but well-lived-in face. He was also fond of brown corduroy. McCray was tenacious but not competitive, a rare combination in law enforcement.
“Jose Sanchez, age thirty-one in unit twelve of the Oakwood Apartments, has two assault charges and recently finished a ten-month stretch in the county jail,” he reported. “Both his assault victims were males around his age. Bar fights is my guess. He also had a warrant for failure to report to his parole officer. I sent a patrol to pick him up.”
Sanchez didn’t sound like a solid suspect. Jackson told the group, “I’ve got Pete Casaway compiling a list of known sex offenders who live within a five-mile radius of Jessie’s home and/or the dump site, which are less than two miles apart.” He turned to Evans. “Did you get the prints made?”
“Yep.” She handed each of them a stack of four-by-five headshots of Jessie. Jackson was surprised to see how grown up Jessie looked in the photos. Was it the effect of makeup? Or had she changed that much in six months?
“Let’s go back to the apartments and show everyone the photos. Start with the units where you didn’t find anyone home
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