Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (26 page)

“Trang said he would have a search warrant and subpoenas this morning,” Jackson responded. “So we’ll be able to access his phone, banking records, and DNA too.”

“About fucking time.” Schak shook his head. “I should have done the paperwork myself.”

Evans changed the subject. “In the meantime, we need to get the ME and go out to the crime scene again. We have to figure out how far away the killer was when he shot the arrow.”

“Maybe we’ll do it this afternoon, but Gunderson has an autopsy to participate in first.” Jackson scanned his notes, knowing he had something else to share, and finally spotted a reference to the crime lab. “I have some good news. The pathologist found a tiny speck of trace evidence in Craig Cooper’s wound. Joe said he would call this morning after he’d run some tests.”

The door banged open and Sergeant Lammers burst in. “Why do I have to hear about a second body from the rumor mill?” She glared at Jackson.

“I’m sorry. I had planned to update you right after this meeting.”

“Not good enough. A damned reporter called me first thing this morning asking if we had a serial killer going after homeless men in storage units. Why does she know about the second murder when I don’t?”

Good question
, Jackson thought. “If it was Sophie Speranza, she probably called the storage place looking for details on the first murder and got lucky and found out about the second death.”

“Tell me who fucking died.” Lammers didn’t sit.

Having her looming over him made Jackson uncomfortable. “Todd Sheppard. He lived in another storage unit, and he’s the
one who found and reported Craig Cooper’s body.” Jackson stood to stretch his legs—and look his boss in the eye. “We went out there to question Sheppard again last night and found him dead. No obvious wounds, no signs of homicide. He might have had a stroke. He had brain damage from playing football.”

“When’s the autopsy?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Lammers glanced at the board. “What other suspects do you have for the Cooper murder?”

Had he forgotten to update his boss at all?
Crap.
“Patrick Brennan. He’s a friend of Cooper’s and admits to being in his storage unit around the time of death. As soon as the ADA gets us warrants, we’ll search his place and his bank records.”

“Do we have him in custody?”

“He was in jail as of five o’clock yesterday.” Jackson knew he should have called again this morning.

Lammers rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything, Jim Trang, an assistant district attorney, walked in.

“I’m sorry for the delay, but I got called into court yesterday. I should have sent you a message.” Trang’s smooth face and dark eyes were tense with guilt.

“Thanks.” Jackson took a stack of paper from him and stuffed the case folder into his shoulder bag, eager to get moving. What if the jail had released Patrick moments ago after the first round of arraignments? He stepped toward the door. “We have a search to conduct.”

Schak stood too, and Evans reached for her coffee.

“I take it this meeting is over?” Lammers’ eyes were still focused on Jackson.

“We have to get out to Patrick Brennan’s place. I’ll update you again before five today.”

“Do that.” She turned and left.

Trang glanced at each of them. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Not right now. Thanks.”

On his way out, Jackson pressed speed dial ten and waited for a deputy at the jail to pick up.

“Lane County Jail.”

“Detective Jackson. I need to know if Patrick Brennan is still in custody. I put a hold request on him.” It hardly mattered now that they were finally on their way to search his place, but he still wanted to know.

“He was arraigned this morning and was processed for release about ten minutes ago.” She didn’t even bother to apologize. The deputies were tired of taking shit for a financial problem that wasn’t their fault.

Jackson turned to his partners. “We have to fly.”

They took three cars, suspecting Patrick Brennan had a lot of weapons to take into evidence custody, and it must have startled some of the residents on Wolf Creek to see them race by. Patrick’s Bronco was parked near the cabin when Jackson pulled in.
Damn.
How long had he been there?

Jackson bolted from his car, carrying only the paperwork, and rushed to the door. Schak and Evans were right behind him. Jackson fingered his weapon with one hand as he pounded. “Eugene Police. Open up, Brennan! We have warrants.”

Loud barking on the other side of the door obscured any movement they might have heard.

Fucking dog.
Jackson pounded again. “Open up or we’re busting this door down.”

“He’s probably in there shoving his arrows into the fireplace.” Schak’s eyes were intense, and he had his taser ready.

Jackson handed the warrants to Evans, then said to Schak, “Let’s shoulder it together.” He glanced at Evans. “Shoot the dog if you have to.”

They positioned themselves and Jackson started a count.

“Wait.” Evans’ voice was right in his ear. “Did you check to see if it’s open?”

Crap.
Jackson reached for the knob and it turned. Embarrassment and anger added gas to the fire of his foul mood. He shoved the door open and yelled at the dog. “Get out!”

The dog did as commanded but kept barking. Once they were all inside, Evans closed the door. The living room was empty, the bow was still on the wall, and no fire burned in the woodstove. They began a search for the occupant, weapons drawn.

A moment later, Patrick called from the bathroom in a distressed voice, “I’ll be out in minute!”

Jackson used a chair to reach the crossbow, a weapon he knew nothing about. He hadn’t shot a bow and arrow since Boy Scout camp. He tagged the weapon, took it to his car, and locked it. The arrows were more important, but he hadn’t spotted any with a quick look around, and he wanted to take the weapon before Patrick could complain.

A few minutes later, Evans found a stash of arrows in the closet of a small back bedroom. Jackson didn’t hold any hope that one would have Cooper’s blood, but if they could at least match these to the wound, it would add weight to their case. Schak found some illegal hunting traps, and Jackson found a stack of pornographic VHS tapes, but overall the search was a disappointment. Patrick had come out of the bathroom and sat at the kitchen table, listening to the radio and pretending they weren’t there. He hadn’t even asked to see the warrant, and when Jackson asked him to open wide for a DNA cheek swab, he complied without a word.

As Jackson bagged and tagged the sample, his phone rang. He couldn’t rush the evidence collection, so it chirped in his pocket a few times. Evans was searching the kitchen cabinets and looked over at him. “Could be important.”

“I know.” He slipped the DNA sample into his shoulder bag, grabbed his phone, and answered without looking at the ID.

“It’s Joe at the lab. I finally identified the trace evidence in Cooper’s wound.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s nail polish. The flake is so small that the color spectrum is hard to identify, but I think it’s dark purple or black.”

“Thanks.” Relief quickly morphed into confusion. Jackson glanced at Patrick’s hands just to be sure. The suspect’s nails were stained, but sans polish.

Evans stared at him intently, and Schak hurried up the hall. Jackson moved out of Patrick’s earshot and his team followed.

“That was the crime lab,” Jackson whispered. “The trace evidence in Cooper’s wound is nail polish, a dark color.”

Evans’ eyes flashed. “Maggie Brennan wore dark purple yesterday.”

Jackson hadn’t noticed, another blow to his ego. “Let’s go pick her up.”

CHAPTER 25

Friday, March 15, 9:25 a.m.

On the way out of the newspaper building, Sophie stopped in the restroom and checked herself in the mirror. The forest-green jacket and skirt complemented her red hair, and she’d swapped her favorite red leather bag for a black Coach purse. This interview with Ted Rockman was important. Not that she was impressed by his money or his little state senator position; she was just the first journalist he’d agreed to meet with in years. And the firebomb story—if it mushroomed like the old Earth Liberation Front movement—could be huge. It could be her ticket to a bigger paper, some of which were still hanging in there, despite predictions that they would have all gone under by now.

Still humming with excitement, Sophie pulled into the small parking area of R&L Enterprises. Once a Victorian-era family home, the building had been renovated with commercial siding,
large windows, and a sign in the grassy front yard that read:
Rockman’s Rule: Think globally. Act locally.

His political office had its own entrance from the rear of the parking lot, but Sophie wasn’t sure which way to enter. Rockman probably had a personal office in the middle, so it shouldn’t matter. Sophie headed for the front and stepped inside. A warm, yeasty smell permeated the air. Were they baking bread? The bottom half of the sign out front had said Rockman Real Estate, so maybe it was just an agent/broker trick, some incense that made the place smell like an inviting kitchen.

The reception area was small and staffed by an older woman with short silver hair. Opposite her L-shaped desk were two padded chairs and a student-size desk with a computer. No one waited in the chairs. Sophie speculated that the real estate business was mostly about property investments and holdings. No walk-in clients. She introduced herself to the receptionist. “I’m here to see Mr. Rockman.”

“I’ll see if he’s ready for you.” The woman stepped through a closed door and came back a moment later. “He needs five minutes.”

Sophie smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Patrice LaRue.”

“How long have you worked for Ted Rockman?”

“Three years. Why?”

“I’m just wondering if you like him.”

“He’s great to work for. Lots of flexibility. But I should be working now.” The receptionist went back to her task and Sophie looked at her notes. She’d read Rockman’s political bio, but it was standard fare about his college degree and his lovely wife and kids.

After a few minutes, Patrice led her into the second room, and Ted Rockman stood and shook her hand. Good grip, warm
hands, nice smile. His dark hair was from a bottle, but he had a flat stomach and great posture for man in his forties.

“Thanks for taking the time to speak with me.” She sat in a leather chair across from his oversize desk, pulled out her recorder, and clicked it on. “I’d like to get your quotes right.” A set of tall windows could have let light into the room, but the curtains were closed.

Rockman looked uncomfortable, then nodded. “You understand I only have about twenty minutes?”

“That’s fine. I’d like to start by asking about your political goals.” Sophie really wanted to ask about the eco-terrorist who’d firebombed his company, but all in good time.

“I haven’t announced this officially yet, but I plan to run for Congress. I’m not happy with my representation, so I can only assume other Oregonians aren’t either.”

Another scoop! She loved her job.

Rockman’s phone rang and he excused himself to take a quick call. When he’d hung up, she got back to his campaign. “Do you have specific issues you would legislate for on a national level?”

“Yes, I’d like to end the war on drugs and restructure our prison system.”

Too surprised to respond, Sophie scribbled a note and collected her thoughts. “Would you work to make all drugs legal or just to defund the prosecution of drug offenses?”

“Both. You have to start by dismantling the DEA, then work toward taking the profit out of imprisoning people just for getting high.”

Holy shit!
Was he really going to let her print this? If he did, he’d never get elected to Congress. “Is this a personal issue for you? Do you know someone who’s in prison for drugs?”

“Several of my childhood friends have done time for possession. But this is mostly an economic issue for all of us. We can’t afford our prison system. The productivity loss is horrendous.”

“Tell me more about your childhood and the friends who went to jail.”

Rockman’s eyes tightened, and Sophie thought he was going to shut down. He glanced at a photo on the wall. A smiling young couple. “My parents were addicts. My mother died in a car accident, and my father died of a heroin overdose. I only had one relative and she wouldn’t take me, so I ended up in a foster home from the age of thirteen to seventeen, when I finally had the resources to leave.”

Quite a success story.
“What was the foster home like for you?”

“Good and bad.” Rockman seemed lost in memory again. “The foster parents had three children of their own and three foster kids. At first, I liked having brothers and sisters, but the crowding and backstabbing became really unpleasant. And the foster father was an asshole.” Rockman waved at her recorder. “I don’t want you to print that. But the experience made me very ambitious at a young age. I had to work several jobs just to rent my own place, and I vowed to never be dependent on anyone again.”

Sophie noticed he’d said “the” foster parents, not “my” foster parents. “Did you stay in touch with your foster family?”