Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (3 page)

In the distance Jackson spotted the busy glow of high-powered flashlights. He hated working crime scenes in the dark, but a late-night scene with a still-warm body was better than bright daylight and a rotting corpse. The sooner they acted on the evidence, the more likely they were to make an arrest.

He turned on Jessen, then into a small cul-de-sac, and parked on the street. The storage business didn’t have or need a parking lot, and two patrol cars took up the space in front of the office. It seemed like an odd place for a homicide, and Jackson wondered if the altercation had started at the nearby Lucky Numbers tavern. The tavern owner, Seth Valder, was in jail for filming pornography with a minor, and Jackson hoped the tavern manager was stealing Valder blind while he did his time.

Jackson climbed from the car and it started to rain.
Oh fuck me
, he thought, pulling his waterproof gear from the backseat, along with his leather carryall bag and a heavy-duty flashlight. As soon as he had the gear on, the rain stopped. He unbuttoned the jacket but didn’t take it off. He knew Eugene weather in March.

He walked toward the silver Airstream that served as an office for the storage company, and a patrol officer approached. “Welcome to the night shift.”

“I’m familiar with it.” He knew he sounded tense, but that was the job. “What have we got?”

“The body is in the third row.” The officer pointed to the left, where small lights illuminated the ends of ten narrow metal buildings.

The units were visible through a metal fence. “Any witnesses? Who called it in?”

“No witnesses so far. And the guy who called didn’t give his name. Dispatch says the call came from the tavern.” The patrol officer pointed again.

Jackson didn’t have to look. “We need to find him.”

“Detective Evans is over there now.”

That was why he loved working with her. Evans was often a half step ahead of him and willing to do the grunt work. Her instincts were good too, but sometimes she moved too fast after a single suspect. “What unit is the body near?”

“C-13.”

A car pulled up on the street and they both turned. Two people climbed out, and despite the dark, Jackson sensed they were an older man and woman.

“That must be the owners,” the patrol officer said. “Ezra and Sally Goldstein. I had dispatch call them. We might need to unlock some units and check the renters.”

“Good work. Find out who rents C-13 and the other units around it. I have to look at the body first.” Jackson jotted down the owners’ names—his first case notes—and headed for the open gate.

Made of metal like the fence around the property, the gate had wheels and rolled to the side. He stopped and flashed his light at the security device mounted on the fence. Operated by a keypad, the code was likely given to everyone who paid money to rent a storage unit. Did the owners keep track of who came and went? Jackson didn’t see a camera.

He studied the fence. About eight feet tall and easy enough to scale for anyone physically fit. But you couldn’t get back over carrying a TV, so it probably prevented most theft.

He turned between the C and D buildings and walked down a long row of overhead doors and thick padlocks. He kept to the side and flicked his light back and forth, looking for footprints or
anything the victim or the perpetrator might have dropped. The area, which likely didn’t see much foot traffic, was clean. Or at least it looked clean in the dark.

About halfway down, an officer stood with a flashlight pointed at the ground. Jackson could see the outline of the body and, nearby, the silhouette of a bicycle. Surprised at first that only two officers were on the scene, he remembered the firebombing at the bottled water company. The other late-shift patrol units were likely over there. If a traffic accident or other mishap occurred, they’d have to call in officers for extra shifts.
They probably already had
, he mentally corrected.

A light blinded his eyes as the officer lifted his flashlight to check him out.

He announced himself and strode forward, ducking under the crime scene tape.

The victim’s head was toward him, and raindrops glistened on his bald spot. Jackson pulled on latex gloves, squatted, and took in the big picture. Early fifties, pale skin, jeans and a gray zip-up sweatshirt. Five-nine or so and gaunt. Stab wound to the throat with blood that was still sticky. Jackson touched the side of the victim’s neck. Relatively warm. His death had occurred in the last few hours.

He looked up at the patrol officer. “Do we have an ID?”

“Craig Cooper, according to his state ID. Age forty-five.”

He was younger than he looked. What had the victim done to attract or piss off his attacker? Jackson pulled back the sweatshirt and white T-shirt underneath, looking for more lacerations. Usually knife fights resulted in multiple wounds, but he didn’t find any. He shone his light around the black asphalt. If there had been blood from the assailant, the rain had washed it away.

He searched Cooper’s pockets and found only a small folding knife. No cell phone. Jackson flipped open the knife but saw no
blood or tissue that would indicate it had been used in a fight. Cooper could have wiped it clean. Then calmly put it back in his pocket while his assailant lunged for him? Not likely.

Jackson lifted one of the dead man’s hands. Thick, calloused, and scarred, like someone who’d worked with wood or gutted fish for a living. Yet the skin had not seen much sun lately. The fine black hair on the back of Cooper’s hand was damp from the intermittent rain. No wounds, no blood.

Jackson lifted the other hand and spotted a crude black tattoo in the shape of a clover. Was it significant? Jackson grabbed his camera and took a close-up shot, hoping the flash would be enough. Normally, he would have taken a dozen photos by now, but in the dark it seemed pointless. The medical examiner would set up bright work lights and get better images.

Jackson reached up and took Cooper’s ID from the officer. State-issued, but not a driver’s license. Remembering the bike, Jackson stood and turned. Leaned against the wall between two units, the bike was an older model that had taken a beating. The rack over the back tire held a backpack. The assailant hadn’t taken either the bike or the pack, so it seemed unlikely robbery had been the motive. A sense of dread washed over Jackson. Unless the witness who’d called in the body had blood on him and they found him soon, this homicide wouldn’t be easy like he’d hoped.

“Here’s his wallet. It was in his front pants pocket.” The officer hadn’t moved from his post.

The canvas wallet was so thin it made Jackson sad. He opened it to find seven dollars, a Social Security card, a picture of a woman in her twenties, and a key. The name on the back of the photo was Jane, dated 1998. He wondered if she’d be recognizable now.

Headlights illuminated the scene and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. The medical examiner’s van drove slowly toward them between the buildings and stopped about thirty feet away, well
outside the crime scene tape. Maybe they would still be able to process a footprint. Jackson was glad the officers hadn’t driven their vehicles into the storage area.

A thought hit him. “Was the gate unlocked when you got here?”

“Yes.” The stocky officer chuckled. “I sure didn’t climb the fence.”

Whoever discovered the body must have left the gate open. Were they a renter here? Or had the killer left the gate open on the way out? More important, had Cooper left it open on the way in?

Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner, climbed out of the van. Dressed in all black, his face floated like a pale ghost in the dark. Jackson noticed he’d cut off his gray ponytail. Gunderson was probably looking for a job, now that the state had lost funding for his position. As the ME stopped next to the body, Joe Berloni, a short, stout crime scene technician, joined them. Jackson was disappointed not to see Jasmine Parker, who usually attended suspicious deaths, but Joe was competent and pleasant to work with.

The rain started again as Jackson filled them in. “The victim is Craig Cooper, according to his ID. He has a neck wound, likely made by a knife, and is still a little warm. No self-defense wounds.”

“Do you still need me to do this?” Gunderson was always a little testy, but his pending layoff was making him bitter too.

Jackson ignored it. “There’s no weapon in the immediate vicinity.” He glanced at the patrol officer for confirmation.

“I walked the length of this corridor and didn’t see anything.” The uniformed man had stepped back to let the crime scene people set up lights and evidence trays.

“What’s behind the property?” Jackson nodded toward the far end.

“A fence, then a field, then more buildings. Likely a business.” The officer clicked his flashlight on. “Should I begin a wider perimeter search?”

“At least along the edge of the field. We’ll get out here again tomorrow when we have more light.”

The officer took off toward the back of the property, and Jackson turned to see a slim figure slipping past the ME van. Detective Lara Evans. Even in the dark, he recognized her small, muscular build.

“Hey, Jackson. I went to the tavern to find the guy who called in the body, but they said he left. What can I do to assist?”

“Go ask the owners if Craig Cooper rents a unit here.” Jackson glanced at the overhead door on the nearby storage unit and saw it was padlocked. “Then get the key if they have one.”

While he waited for Evans to return, Jackson stepped toward the nearby bicycle. He pulled off the bungee cord and lifted the nylon backpack, surprised at how heavy it was. He peered inside with his flashlight: thick flannel shirt, heavy-duty bike lock, brown paper bag with the remains of a lunch, and a library copy of
The Stand
. In the zipper pocket was a key, gold with a round head, like a post office box key. Worth checking out. Jackson slipped the key into an evidence bag by itself and put it in his pocket for easy access.

A moment later, Evans walked up carrying a sledgehammer. “Yep, C-13 is Cooper’s rental.”

Joe looked over at the door. “Want me to fingerprint it first?”

“Sure.” Jackson knew it was probably a waste of time. The victim had most likely been killed moments after he rode up on his bicycle. Jackson remembered the key in Cooper’s wallet.

While Joe dusted the lock and the area around the door handle, Jackson dug into his pocket and produced the key. “This will be easier.”

“Damn.” Evans set down the sledgehammer, then drew her weapon. “The killer could be hiding in there.”

Jackson opened the lock, pushed up the overhead door, and stepped to the side.

A small animal rushed out, and Joe made a startled noise. “Was that a cat?”

“I think so.” Jackson edged forward. “Eugene Police. Put your hands in the air and come out.”

Nothing in the dark space moved.

“Can we take one of the work lights inside?” Jackson asked.

The ME grumbled but gestured to go ahead. Joe grabbed a tripod and moved it into the storage unit. Once they had light, Jackson and Evans holstered their weapons.

Except for a cat litter box near the door, the space was nearly empty. The front half held a futon mattress with a stack of blankets, and behind it in the shadows were a small dresser and a couple of boxes with food items. Next to the bedding they found a lantern and a canvas folding chair.

“I’ll be damned,” Evans said, holstering her weapon. “He lives in here.”

“This can’t be legal.” Jackson didn’t understand how someone could spend much time in the tiny windowless space with no heat and no lights. But maybe it was better than sleeping under a bridge.

Joe handed Evans a UV light and began to spray the walls and floor with luminol. While Joe and Evans looked for blood that may have been wiped up, Jackson riffled through the bedding, searching for a weapon or anything that might help explain the murder. Under a stained pillow, he found a dark-purple drawstring bag. Inside the fabric that had once held a bottle of Crown Royal whiskey was a collection of keepsakes. A beaded bracelet, a white rabbit’s foot, and an old yarn toy.

The dresser was next, but it held nothing but clothing, all of it faded and worn, except for an unopened package of white socks.

Jackson half expected to find drugs, but there was no evidence of any. On the surface, Craig Cooper’s life seemed simple and Spartan. Was his murder a random act of violence?

“Check this out.” Evans, who’d been searching through a cardboard box, handed him a book with the cover torn off.

Jackson flashed his light on it. “A Bible.” He noticed it was missing the first few chapters as well. “It looks like it’s been torn.”

“Maybe a struggle?”

“Or just something he found that way.”

A muffled cry echoed through the damp night. Jackson and Evans both snapped their heads toward the sound. Where had it come from? Jackson pulled his weapon, ran out of the unit, and turned left—with Evans right on his heels. The ME and the evidence tech had stopped and turned to face the front as well.

Jackson slowed and listened intently, but the only sound he heard was the light patter of rain on metal buildings.

The cry had sounded so close. A homeless person along the road? A drunk in the tavern parking lot? Jackson took three more steps toward the front, then heard the noise again. No, not the same lament. Similar, but less woeful. And it came from the unit ahead and to his right. He hurried to the far side of the door and shined his light. Unit D-7. The padlock was not engaged.

Evans moved next to the door on the opposite side.

“Open up, Eugene Police!” Jackson yelled.

Silence.

Louder this time. “Police. Open up.”

They heard another sleepy cry, then shuffling.

“Put your hands in the air. I’m opening the door.” Jackson quietly set down his flashlight.

Sig Sauer in one hand, he reached for the handle with the other. He turned, shoved upward, and stepped to the side as the door clanged open. With his back to the building, he called, “Step out here with your hands in the air.”

Evans was in a similar stance on the other side, and the pounding footsteps of the uniformed officer charged their way.