Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (14 page)

Schak pulled a chair from the kitchen area, and Jackson sat on the coffee table next to the dirty plate. Out of habit, Jackson took the lead. “Where were you last night between six and eight?”

Patrick processed the question thoroughly, his expression changing from what seemed like resentment to concern. But his sagging cheeks and droopy eyelids made him hard to read. “You said this was about Craig Cooper. What happened?”

“We’ll ask the questions. Where were you last night?” Jackson didn’t want to give him time to come up with a story.

“I bought groceries in town, then I came home.”

“What store and when did you leave the store?”

“Winco, right off Beltline. I think I left around six-thirty or seven. I’m not sure. It was still light out.”

“Do you have your receipt?” Jackson glanced at the grocery bags.

“Probably.” Patrick struggled to his feet, his big belly straining against his T-shirt. But his arms and legs were skinny, making him look like a caricature. The suspect searched the two sacks, then flipped through the stack of paper on the table. He finally checked the garbage. “Here it is.” He walked over and handed the damp strip of paper to Jackson.

The time stamp near the top was calculated to the second:
18:29:47
. Patrick had checked out at six-thirty, leaving him time to drive the three miles to the storage unit and kill Craig before seven. Jackson jotted down the store and time. “May I keep this?”

“Does it clear me?” Patrick’s lips pulled back, revealing his stained teeth.

The creepy smile gave Jackson a bad vibe. “No. Where did you go next?”

Patrick looked down and picked something off his shirt. “I came home.”

Liar.
Jackson slipped the receipt into his pocket. “Can you prove that?”

“I wish you’d tell me what this is about.”

Schak, who’d read Patrick Brennan’s file, asked, “How well did you know Craig Cooper?”

“He’s an old friend. I get the feeling he may have died last night.”

“He was murdered,” Schak said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Patrick’s mouth tightened, but again, Jackson couldn’t read him. Grief? Anger?

After a moment, the suspect leaned back on the couch, as if tired. “A couple weeks ago. Craig called and asked how I was doing. We met at the tavern for a beer and talked about old times.”

“What tavern?” Jackson asked.

“Lucky Numbers.”

“Do you know where Craig lived?”

“He said he had a place nearby.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Like I said, old times.” Patrick flinched in pain.

“Did you talk about the robbery?”

Patrick held his stomach. “I don’t feel well. I need you to leave so I can lay down.”

“We just need a few more minutes,” Jackson pressed. “Tell us about the robbery.”

“I wasn’t involved and I’m not talking about it.” Patrick scooted to the edge of the couch, then lumbered to his feet and headed for the short hallway.

“Where are you going?” Jackson and Schak were both on their feet.

“The toilet.”

A noxious odor filled the room. Jackson and Schak glanced at each other. The bathroom door slammed closed.

“What now?” Jackson was a little stumped.

“I say we get the hell out of here before he lets loose with more of that.” Schak’s eyes went wide with mock horror.

“I think he’s lying about coming straight home.”

“I do too. We need to keep digging.” His partner stepped toward the front door. “We’ll show Patrick’s picture around the storage unit and find out if anyone saw them together.”

Jackson was inclined to agree. They didn’t have anything to hold him on or charge him with yet, but they knew Patrick’s address and vehicle information. He wouldn’t get far if he tried to run, and he didn’t seem like someone with the resources to buy a plane ticket to Mexico.

As Jackson moved to leave, a book on an end table caught his eye. Jackson pulled on gloves from his carryall before picking it up. But it wasn’t really a book, just a front cover and a small chunk of pages. Embossed on the black surface were the words
Holy Bible
. In the lower left corner were the initials
DB
. Danny Brennan? The missing section of the torn Bible they’d found in Craig Cooper’s storage unit.

CHAPTER 11

Wednesday, March 13, 4:45 p.m.

Schak’s desk was six feet from Jackson’s in a space crowded with several more desks and a half dozen filing cabinets. The odd vertical panels around the exterior of the building limited the natural light from the windows. But the violent crimes area was as familiar and comfortable as his own home.

“Should we make him wait?” Jackson asked. Earlier they’d waited twenty minutes for Patrick to finish in the bathroom before hauling the whining suspect into the precinct. Schak had taken the suspect into the interrogation room while Jackson picked up coffee.

“Make who wait?” Evans walked in, her hair damp and her forehead creased in irritation. She was still attractive.

“Patrick Brennan. He’s in the interrogation room.”

“Good.” She gestured at their Full City cups. “Where is my coffee?”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” Jackson would have gladly traded his coffee for one of her little Provigil energy tablets, but he didn’t dare ask in front of Schak.

Evans found an empty cup on her desk and held it out. “That’s okay, you can share.”

Jackson poured her some coffee and Schak grumbled and contributed too.

“Should I observe the interrogation?” Evans asked.

“Sure. But first, do you have anything new?”

“I learned Dora Cooper is dead, so the ex-wife didn’t do it. I also found Danny Brennan’s widow, and Maggie Brennan blames Craig Cooper for the robbery and for Danny’s death.”

“Interesting.” Jackson sipped his coffee. “Cooper must have been quite a piece of work before prison stripped him of his mojo.” He gestured with his head. “Let’s step into the conference room and do a quick update on the board as we talk. I want to keep all these people straight.”

Evans went first, grabbed the marker, and started a family tree. “This will be challenging with two of these men dead and two having the same last name.” She listed Patrick and Danny next to each other, with Maggie under Danny’s name. On the right of Danny, she listed Craig Cooper with Dora under his name, then made a line through it, with the word
deceased
above. Next Evans drew a box around Danny and Patrick and wrote
brothers
. Then she drew a box around Danny and Craig and wrote
bank robbers
. She turned to Schak. “Did you talk to Patrick’s ex?”

“Her name’s Kathy Brennan, and she doesn’t seem to hate anyone. But she did tell me where to find Patrick, so she’s not protecting him either.”

Evans wrote
Kathy
on the board under
Patrick
, then picked up her coffee. “In case you’re wondering,” Evans said between sips,
“the reason I didn’t bring Maggie in for questioning is that she has an alibi. She was home with her daughter, watching a movie.”

“How old is the kid?”

“Seventeen or so.” Evans shrugged. “Her daughter could have lied to cover for the mom, but why would Maggie be blunt about hating Cooper if she killed him?” Evans wrote
Jenna, 17
under Danny and Maggie with family-tree lines drawn to her.

Schak asked, “Any other kids we know about?”

A moment of quiet.

“We may bring Maggie in yet,” Jackson said. “And Kathy. Maybe play them off each other. See what they’re willing to tell us about the robbery and the missing money.”

“Sounds like fun.” Evans looked at Jackson. “Should we grab something to eat?”

He glanced at his watch. “I just want to get this over with, but feel free to get something from the vending machine.”

Schak stood. “Let’s go talk to Grizzly Adams.”

Evans raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Patrick Brennan lives on Wolf Creek in a cabin with a collection of hunting weapons,” Schak explained.

Evans wrote it all on the board, her handwriting getting a little messy at the end. “You know that if we go far enough down this robbery path and waste enough time, our perp will turn out to be the brain-damaged giant who lives next door.”

“But we could still find the money,” Schak countered.

“We’ll see.”

On the way down the hall, his phone rang and Jackson looked at the ID:
Charlotte Diebold
. Not recognizing the name, he started to put his phone back, then remembered it was the therapist from court. “Wade Jackson here.”

“It’s Charlotte Diebold. I’m sorry for the late call, but I cleared a spot on my calendar for your daughter. Tomorrow at two.”

“Thank you.”

“Her name is Katie Jackson?”

“Yes. We’ll see you then.” Jackson hoped he could make good on that.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Patrick looked older than his forty-six years and he breathed with a wheeze. Jackson hoped he had his bowels under control. The windowless ten-foot-square room didn’t leave any place for air to escape. It was fitted with a camera that displayed on a monitor in the conference room.

Schak sat on the inside with Jackson near the door. He needed to be ready to bolt. His claustrophobia was getting worse, and he couldn’t wait to get into the new police building with its full-size conference and interrogation rooms. The money had come out of Eugene’s “facilities construction” budget because the building they were in now wouldn’t withstand an earthquake, and with all those patrol cars parked underneath, it was a potential worst-case scenario.

Jackson put his recorder on the table. He liked to have his own verbal copy for easy referral. “Patrick Brennan is here with detectives Wade Jackson and Rob Schakowski. Patrick has declined to call an attorney to be present.” Jackson stated the time and date, then sipped his coffee. His stomach growled in protest. This could be a long one.

He went over the basic questions he’d already asked, such as where Patrick was Tuesday night at the time of Craig Cooper’s death. Jackson hadn’t mentioned the torn Bible when he’d cuffed Patrick, wanting to get the suspect on record lying about when and where he last saw the victim. That would give them leverage. Patrick repeated his earlier statement about seeing Craig in the tavern two weeks prior.

“Did you fight with him?” Jackson asked.

“No. We’re friends.” Patrick’s facial skin hung so loosely he looked perpetually sad.

“Did you see Craig Cooper after that?”

A pause. “No.”

“Were you ever in his storage unit?”

“No.”

“Earlier you claimed you didn’t know where Craig lived, yet you showed no surprise when I mentioned the storage unit.”

“So? He just got out of prison. I didn’t expect him to be at the Hilton.”

Patrick was a wiseass.
“Were you inside or outside Craig’s storage unit when you fought over Danny Brennan’s Bible and ripped it in half?” Jackson held out his phone and showed the photo he’d taken in Patrick’s house. “The other half was in the murder victim’s possession.”

Surprise and shame flashed in Patrick’s eyes. He finally stammered, “That happened in the tavern. I was surprised to see that he had my brother’s Bible. It should have gone to me.”

“Bullshit. One of our detectives talked to the bartender, and he doesn’t remember the incident.” That was fabrication, but they would verify it tomorrow. “You have to stop lying and digging yourself in deeper. Tell us where and why you fought over the Bible.”

A long silence.

Schak prodded him with empathy. “Did Craig attack you? We understand if you tried to defend yourself.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Patrick shook his head and his cheeks jiggled.

“Tell us what happened last night,” Jackson pressed.

“I stopped by to see Craig after I bought groceries. I wanted to take him some beef jerky and some oranges. He loves ’em both
and I knew he wasn’t eating well.” Patrick began to rock a little. “I felt bad for the way he was living.”

Jackson and Schak both waited him out.

“I saw Danny’s Bible when I was there and I asked him about it. Craig said he’d had it the whole time he was in prison. I told him I wanted it and he refused.” Patrick looked down at his hands. “So I tried to take it from him and it ripped. I was so mad, I left. And the cover and a few pages were still in my hand.”

“And Craig was dead on the ground, a knife wound in his neck.” Jackson said it softly.

“No. He was alive and yelling at me.”

“Did anyone see you leave? Or hear Craig yelling?”

“I doubt it. By then, it was after hours, and the owners had gone home.”

Jackson was curious about his access. “How did you get in?”

“The gate was open.”

“Fully open?”

“No, just unlocked and open a few inches.”

“So you just walked in? What happened next?”

“I went to Craig’s unit and we sat in the doorway and talked for a while. Then I saw a Bible and picked it up.”

“Then what?”

“I told you. We argued for a minute, then he grabbed the Bible and tried to take it from me. It ripped in half, so I cussed at him and left.”

“How loud was the argument?” Jackson hoped to find a witness, even if he had to call every customer at Safe and Secure Storage. Maybe there were more people living in the units.