Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (17 page)

“Sorry to be late. We’ll get started right away.” Konrad moved to the sink to scrub his hands.

Jackson stayed back until Konrad was ready. He’d get plenty of corpse-staring time while the pathologist conducted a visual inch-by-inch search of Craig Cooper’s skin. It was always interesting to see what people had hidden under their clothes—scars, tattoos, birthmarks, and piercings. They held surprises inside their corpses too, like tumors, shrapnel, or pregnancies.

Craig Cooper’s body had gone soft and white in prison, obviously not an inmate who’d taken advantage of the weight machines or yard time. His lower legs were covered with thick black hair, and his arms were inked with tattoos. Only a couple of the images looked professionally crafted. The others had the crude black-ink-only look of prison tattoos created by people with limited skills and tools.

For the moment, Jackson focused on the victim’s feet because they were closest. Cooper had a crooked little toe that looked like it had been broken and a nasty burn scar on the inside of his left ankle.

Konrad commented on both, then continued his search up the dead man’s legs. Jackson mentally planned his day while he waited to hear something relevant. His next stop would be at the gas station where Cooper had worked, then he needed to update Lammers and check in with the lab. He hoped Joe would tell him they’d found blood on Patrick’s knife and that the sample was on its way to the state lab. He would also check in to see if the DA’s office had come through with a signed warrant for Patrick Brennan’s cabin.

He heard Konrad mention a familiar name and tuned back in. The pathologist was examining a tattoo. “Do we know who Dora is?” Konrad looked over his glasses at Jackson.

“Dora Cooper. The victim’s ex-wife. She’s deceased too.” Jackson leaned forward for a better look at the tattoo. A simple design with her name in cursive and the
O
in red ink in the shape of a heart. Another ink image below sported a green-and-black dragon. Jackson wondered if the dragon had been added later and if it also referred to the woman who’d eventually left him.

Konrad examined Cooper’s shoulders and clavicles, then finally leaned over for a close-up look at the wound. He probed and used his magnifier and measuring tool. After a long couple of minutes that tested Jackson’s patience, Konrad put the tools down.

“This is unusual. There are several entry points. The victim was stabbed several times, all in close proximity with a sharp, small blade. And the wound is very deep.” The pathologist glanced at Jackson. “Multiple stab wounds usually indicate rage or a prolonged fight, but this victim has no defensive wounds, and the incisions are so close together they suggest a certain control or purposefulness.”

Jackson tried to visualize Patrick standing next to Cooper, plunging a knife into the same area on his neck over and over. What did that mean? How did Patrick’s height compare to Cooper’s? “How tall is the victim?”

“Five-nine and a half.” Konrad took a step back to look at the length of the corpse. “The stab wounds don’t appear to have an angle, so the killer is probably around the same height.”

Gunderson spoke up. “The wound is on the victim’s left, so the killer is likely right-handed, which doesn’t narrow it down much. But I also noted that there wasn’t a lot of blood. Was the carotid artery severed?”

“Completely.” Konrad made a small shrug. “Sometimes a wound like that sends the victim into shock and they die almost
instantly. When the heart stops pumping, the blood flow eases.” The information was meant for Jackson.

“What is this?” The pathologist grabbed a magnifier and used a tiny tool with his other hand to extract something from the wound.

Jackson waited while he examined it.

Finally, Konrad said, “It looks like a metal flake, but we’ll have to send it to the lab for analysis.” Jackson knew better than to ask him to guess. Konrad looked at Gunderson. “Let’s turn him over.”

Jackson glanced around the room, preferring not to witness the casual handling of a dead body. He was just glad it wasn’t a female victim today.

The pathologist examined the back of the victim’s neck. “Interesting.” Konrad’s usually deadpan voice sounded a little excited. He turned to the ME. “Let’s get photos of this puncture before I cut into it.”

“I already took them.” Gunderson looked a little sheepish. “The red mark is in my report, but I thought it was just an insect bite.” When he brought the bodies in, the medical examiner cleaned and photographed them, as well as collected trace evidence and blood samples. Konrad, the pathologist, performed the postmortem exam and determined the cause of death.

Konrad grabbed a scalpel and made two deep incisions. “As I thought. This is an exit wound. The weapon lightly punctured the skin on the back of his neck, but it didn’t break all the way through.”

Jackson tried to envision something long and sharp on the end. As it hit him, Konrad continued. “I believe this victim was shot with an arrow, then stabbed repeatedly with the same arrow.”

CHAPTER 14

Thursday, March 14, 7:35 a.m.

River woke to the smell of frying bacon and sat up, confused and strangely eager. Was someone in her house? She grabbed her Glock, a split second away on her nightstand, then bolted out of bed. Except for the low hum of the heat pump, the house was silent. The lovely bacon smell drifted in through her bedroom window, which she always left slightly open when she slept. She remembered inviting Jared to park his van—his home on wheels—in her driveway. Was he cooking out there?

River glanced at the clock.
Damn
. She’d slept late after staying up until three, reading case notes and background history on Ted Rockman. She couldn’t help it; her natural rhythm was to stay up late and sleep four or five hours. She was grateful she didn’t need more.

Weapon still in hand, she hurried to the front room to look out the window. The curtains were half open—reflecting her need
for both daylight and privacy—so she stopped at the edge of the area rug, not wanting Jared to see her in her purple silk pajamas. He had set up a gas camping stove on a sawhorse next to the van and was cooking breakfast. He wore black work pants and a faded denim jacket and looked happy. The early morning light cast a soft glow on the scene, and River wanted to be out there with him, sipping hot coffee in the cold air and sharing whatever it was that made him smile. She watched for a moment, imagining what it would be like to be intimate with such an unassuming and resourceful man.

Jared turned, as if sensing her stare, and River spun and fled down the hall. It wasn’t a campground, she reminded herself, but her front yard. And he wasn’t her boyfriend, just a nice, albeit homeless, remodeler who was working on her house. Still, she found herself smiling through her shower and thinking about waking up to Jared in her kitchen. If he liked to cook bacon in the morning, she could do worse for a roommate.

Once she was dressed, River stepped outside and invited him in.

“Thanks. I’d like to make some coffee in your kitchen if I can.” He saw her checking out the camp stove. “Does it bother you? I should have asked first.” He looked around. “I didn’t see any nearby neighbors.”

River smiled. “That’s why I bought this place.” An apple orchard bordered her property on the right, and a small oak grove gave her privacy on the left. “I liked waking to the smell of bacon, once I realized where it was coming from.”

“I saved you some.” Jared lifted the lid from the cast-iron frying pan.

River could have kissed him. “I’ll have a piece.” She picked up a greasy strip and ate it on her way into the house. Jared followed a moment later with coffee grounds in one hand and a tool pouch
in the other. She made tea while he made coffee, and it pleased her to share her space with someone. She’d been alone for so long. With the exception of a three-week relationship with a woman she’d met on the job when she was new at the bureau—and still male—River had been on her own. The romance hadn’t worked because the sexual chemistry had been nonexistent. For a long time, she’d believed she was asexual, a passionless person. But she felt some heat now and she liked it.

“I’ll finish the family room floor today and maybe start on the bathroom,” Jared said between sips. “That toilet has to go.”

River couldn’t help but laugh. The hall bath had pink fixtures from the fifties and didn’t flush properly. She’d bought the property for the private Santa Clara location, its huge back garden, and fire-sale price. She’d viewed it as an opportunity to remodel and make the space her own. “I’ve got to get to work.” She finished her tea and rose to leave. “You can call or text me if you have any questions.”

“I’ll be fine. Go make the world safe.” Jared gave her a lopsided smile.

And he would be here when she returned
, River thought on her way to her car.

Normally, she would have stopped at the bureau, checked her e-mail, and reported to her supervisor, but she was already running late, so she drove straight to the Rock Spring factory, where she hoped to find Candy Morrison at work. The woman’s Facebook connection to Chris Noonaz, plus her entry into the building moments before the arsonist had arrived, probably wasn’t coincidental. But this was Eugene, where people tended to be connected, even though it was a small city rather than a small town.

The full parking lot told her the factory was up and running again. River wondered if the arsonist realized that. Had he driven by to see the extent of the damage and been disappointed? She knew she shouldn’t think of the suspect in only male terms, because it could be a woman, but the statistics didn’t support that. Arsonists were almost exclusively men. And the night watchman had described the bomber as big and muscular.

As River strode across the parking lot, a security guard came out from a covered smokers’ area and stopped her before she reached the building. River identified herself and showed her badge, glad to see Ted Rockman had beefed up his security. The guard called someone in the main office, then let her pass.

As she headed for the small man-door, the overhead door opened and a forklift carrying crates rumbled out. River scooted through the opening and made her way past the bottling lines. She looked for Candy, but didn’t see her. The employees all wore hairnets, gloves, and jackets. The overhead heaters couldn’t keep the building warm with the overhead door opening throughout the day.

River climbed the stairs, remembering the underwear she’d found in the couch when she’d investigated the night of the firebomb. But it wasn’t Bromwell in the office. An older man, with mocha-toned skin and ink-black hair, stood and greeted her. “Ricardo Morrison, plant foreman. How can I help you?”

The name gave her pause. “Agent River, FBI. I’m looking for Candy Morrison. Is she related to you?”

“She’s my wife. Why do you want to see her?”

“That’s not your concern. Where is she?” River wondered if she should question Ricardo as well.

He didn’t move or respond for a full ten seconds. “She’s in the reject room. I’ll take you there.”

River followed him downstairs to the back of the plant. They passed through a door she hadn’t seen when she’d been here Tuesday night and into a cramped room where two women sorted defective plastic bottles.

“Candy, this FBI agent wants to talk to you.” Ricardo’s tone was meant to be intimidating. He was clearly upset that he didn’t have control of the situation.

A blonde woman looked up, startled. She looked to be in her late thirties but still two decades younger than her husband. She didn’t wear a hairnet like the other employees, but her tight ponytail wasn’t flattering either. “Why me?” Her eyes flashed with fear.

“Good question, Candy.” Ricardo crossed his arms. “Why does the FBI want to talk to you?”

“Let’s go out to my car.” River wanted to get the woman away from her husband. When Candy hesitated, River took hold of her arm and gave her a friendly smile. “Now, please.”

Candy grabbed her jacket from the bench and didn’t look at Ricardo as they walked out. River didn’t let go until they were on the factory floor. The employees glanced up from their workstations with worried eyes as they passed. The noise of the factory drowned out even the sound of their footsteps. River hoped they were all wearing earplugs.

The overhead door was still open and the wind blew into the building. Candy shivered.

Out in the parking lot, River turned to her suspect. “I won’t tell your husband you were here with Jerry Bromwell Tuesday night, but I need the truth.” As she spoke, River heard pounding footsteps and turned.

Right behind them, Ricardo yelled. “What the fuck did you say?”

Oh shit.

In the interrogation room, Candy Morrison picked at her fingernails and tried to be defiant. River had ended up cuffing Candy’s jackass husband to keep him from assaulting his cheating wife, then had left him in the back of a patrol car for EPD to handle. Her patience long gone, she didn’t know how much rapport building she could stomach. But she tried.

“I’m an environmentalist too, Candy. Anyone who cares about the future of our species is.” River leaned forward. “So I understand why you got involved with Love the Earth. But it’s not worth doing ten years in a federal prison.”