Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Read Free Page A

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 oranything 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 noblood 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.