The Light we Lost : A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (Lost Light Book 1) Page 12

  The tire iron was indeed the murder weapon. The lab had matched Easton’s DNA.

  Dr. Virtanen pointed to the cranial area. The skull was so deformed that Jackson had difficulty imagining a human face had ever existed. “See these fractures here? The blows fractured the maxilla, the upper jawbone, here and here, as well as a right orbital rim fracture.”

  The perp had swung at the victim’s head five times. The first two blows came from an upward slanting angle that suggested the assailant was shorter than Easton’s six-three frame. And right-handed.

  Bile churned in his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. The sterile smell of antiseptic stung his nostrils. Because the corpse was found and refrigerated within twenty-four hours, at least the decomposition stench was minimal.

  “How much force would be required to land blows like this?” Jackson asked.

  “A lot.”

  “A grown man? A teenage boy?”

  Dr. Virtanen nodded, thoughtful. “Could be a teenage boy.”

  “How about a teenage girl?” Devon asked.

  Jackson shot her a look.

  Devon shrugged. “No reason to be sexist.”

  “It’s within the realm of possibility,” the ME said. “But unlikely.”

  “Takes a lot of hatred to smash in someone’s head until they’re hardly recognizable as human,” Devon said dryly.

  Dr. Virtanen pointed to an evidence envelope on the counter. “I’ve collected fingernail scrapings, clippings, and removed debris from the victim’s hair.”

  “Thank you.” Jackson took the envelope, checked that it was sealed, then signed the Chain of Custody log on the back.

  “Was the victim under the influence when he died?” Devon asked.

  “Don’t expect the toxicology report anytime soon,” Dr. Virtanen said. “As you know, it takes months when things are normal. With these strange power outages, who knows? The system’s been down since Monday night. I won’t be able to release the final autopsy until I have the tox report in hand.”

  Dr. Virtanen gestured at the stryker saw sitting on the counter next to the sink. A pair of pruning loppers for cutting ribs lay next to it. “I’m about to open up the cranial cap. Time to put on safety goggles and full PPE gear.”

  The rest of the autopsy took three hours. The medical examiner used a foot pedal to control the start and stop of her audio recorder. As she worked her way through the autopsy, she spoke aloud, mentioning everything she did, including specific measurements of internal organs.

  Devon took photos so they didn’t have to wait for them from the ME, but they didn’t learn anything new that was relevant to the case.

  After the autopsy, they drove to the sheriff’s office, logged in the evidence, then headed to the Dogpatch restaurant across the street from the Munising precinct.

  They ordered the UP’s famous pasties, beef and root veggies folded into a pastry shell and baked until juicy and tender. The pasty was pronounced with a soft ‘a’ like ‘pass’ and had been invented as portable meals for Cornish miners in the mid-nineteenth century.

  Devon looked down at her food for a moment, as if debating whether she still had an appetite, then she shrugged, picked up her pasty and shoved a huge bite in her mouth.

  She chewed loudly. “Mmmmm.”

  Jackson didn’t touch his plate. Much as he loved pasties, his stomach churned. He couldn’t get Easton’s mashed-in face out of his head. He’d known the man for his entire life. Disliked him for that long, but no one deserved to die like that.

  “You’re a sensitive soul, aren’t you?” Devon asked as she swallowed another mouthful.

  “I knew him. I know everyone here.”

  Devon shot him a sympathetic glance. He hated that look. Nothing much worse than pity.

  She cleared her throat. “When I was a beat cop in Detroit, I got the domestic calls. The battered women, beaten halfway to Sunday, screaming for help, but you know what? They always went back the next day, like a dog to its vomit.”

  A memory from long ago flitted into his mind. He pushed it away. “It’s usually more complicated than that.”

  “You get immune to it after a while. You don’t have a choice.” She took another bite, looked out the window at the marina, the placid bay. Her voice dropped. “The kids, though.”

  He saw it then, a shadow flickering behind her eyes. That haunted look. Things had been hard for her. He hadn’t asked why she’d left Detroit and come all the way up here to the middle of nowhere.

  There was something closed in her expression. She was tough, and she needed him to believe that she was tough. Vulnerability could be seen as weakness, especially for a female officer. She’d tell him when she was good and ready.

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “About the kids.”

  He’d long suspected that Easton had occasionally smacked his girls around when he was drunk. They had never admitted it, but there had been bruises, that darkness in their eyes.

  He’d wondered about Cody and Shiloh, too, but he’d never made the call. Maybe he should have.

  Jackson pushed around his potatoes. They’d canvassed neighborhoods, checked with the local businesses, and put out BOLOs.

  There was no sign of her or Cody.

  He’d barely slept last night, tossing and turning, imagining her somewhere out in the Hiawatha National Forest, cold and alone and scared.

  “What’s next?” Devon asked after swallowing an enormous bite of the handheld meat pie. She licked her lips. “I could have another one right now. These are so, so good. The best part of the UP, if you ask me.”

  “The school,” he said. “We need to track down Cody’s whereabouts. Who his friends are. Where he might hole up if he got himself into trouble. We can ask about Shiloh, too, but be careful. We don’t want to let any potential suspects know that she’s a witness. The perp might not have seen her.”

  “Sounds like you don’t think they’re together.”

  “I don’t think anything yet. I go where the evidence takes me.”

  Devon smirked. “Said every TV detective hack ever.”

  “Mock me, but it’s true.” He pushed back his plate. Even the sight of food made him sick.

  Devon looked at her phone with a forlorn expression. The last three days of rolling power outages had made her grumpy. She grinned and flashed him the latest feed on her Instagram. “Look, service again. The world is restored.”

  She scrolled through photo after photo of the auroras. Jackson glanced at a few of the comments: #Nature’s Fourth of July #I’d rather have a hot shower.

  “Look at this one.” It was a striking photo of Lake Superior, probably taken from Grand Island. The undulating waves of the aurora reflected off the water in a near perfect double-image. The hashtag read: #the world ends not with a bang but with a beautiful whimper.

  The blood drained from his face. He read the words, reread them, felt them echo somewhere deep in his soul.

  It seemed like half the news agencies were reporting on the blackouts, long lines at gas stations, and the potential damage to low earth satellites. The other half made jokes about telegrams catching on fire.

  He hadn’t had time to check his supplies in the basement or even visit a grocery store. He wanted to make a trip to Marquette, just to be safe. The largest town in the UP. Marquette boasted a Target and Walmart and a couple of camping stores.

  There was too much to do. A homicide to solve and missing kids to find. He had a habit of putting aside his own needs, working himself to the bone to solve a case.

  But the cases never ended. There was always someone who needed saving.

  He pushed his chair back and stood, waving down the waitress for the check, which he and Devon split. Devon followed his lead. “Back to work we go.”

  They walked a block in the cool May sunshine to where they’d parked the patrol truck across from the marina.

  Jackson looked across the bay toward Grand Island, the lush green island and recreationa
l area located a half mile north of the harbor. The harbor itself was smooth, the water a rich emerald green.

  The sky was a rich blue, with no hint of the aurora that would be back in force again tonight.

  Devon opened the driver’s side door. “Shall I drive?”

  “Until you’ve earned your stripes, I drive.”

  She smirked at him but moved out of the way. “After you, boss.”

  21

  JACKSON CROSS

  DAY THREE

  The Munising Middle-High School shared a campus and was conveniently located right on the bay off M-28.

  There were few cars in the parking lot—a couple of sedans, a rusted red Toyota Tacoma, a metallic blue F150, and a dirt-crusted white Jeep Wrangler in clear need of a wash.

  “I bet they got the day off of school,” Devon said enviously. “Jerks.”

  Jackson’s lip twitched as he pulled into the familiar parking lot. So many memories here. Some good. Some awful. An image of his older brother Garrett flitted through his mind.

  Garrett had been a quarterback golden boy, but he’d spiraled into drugs and addiction, bad choices, and then worse ones. After an arrest for dealing his sophomore year of college at MSU, he’d been kicked off the football team, expelled from school, and returned home in shame.

  A week after a particularly vicious fight with their father, Garrett had left one summer day and never returned. Two months later, he’d sent a post card from Mackinac Island. Then a month later, from Saginaw Bay on Lake Huron, a fisherman’s paradise.

  He’d gotten a job. He was happy. Leave him alone.

  And then, nothing. Not a birthday phone call. Not a visit. Not a Christmas card.

  Deep down, Jackson couldn’t blame him. They hadn’t been close. And families could be difficult, especially his.

  While Garrett had been the black sheep, Jackson had felt pulled toward the other extreme. He’d played the peacemaker, as if one wrong move might send his family spiraling into disaster.

  He followed the rules, believed in the rules. The rules held everything together, even if by only the thinnest filament.

  “You planning to sit in there all day?” Devon asked. She was already out of the truck.

  “Old memories. Sorry.”

  “You went here, didn’t you? Not many people live in the same place from cradle to the grave, you know.”

  “I’m not dead yet. There’s still time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

  Jackson climbed out of the truck, shut the door, and pocketed the keys. He felt heavy. The bitter memories weighed him down. They weren’t the worst ones.

  He thought of Lily, how her effervescent laugh had made him smile, no matter what happened at home. Or how Eli’s wry grin reminded him that his friends had his back.

  He missed that simplicity. How black and white things had been. Good and bad, right and wrong.

  Before the betrayals. Before the hurt and the jealousies, before it all fell apart around them.

  “Jackson Cross, it’s good to see you.” A tall, broad-shouldered man approached them before they reached the front doors. He was dressed in pressed khaki slacks and a black button-up dress shirt. Fit and trim, he was in his late forties, with salt and pepper hair, a kind face and firm handshake.

  David Kepford had been the principal for ten years. He was a fixture in the community. A downstater from Grand Rapids, he wasn’t a true Yooper. Some people cared about that sort of thing here.

  “How’s the fly fishing?” he asked.

  Jackson smiled grimly. “Never enough time. The job has a tendency to come first, second, and last.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about the Easton kids,” Devon said.

  David’s expression turned sympathetic. In a small town, news traveled quickly. “It’s a tragedy, what those kids have been through. I understand that they’re missing.”

  “Any information you can give us in this regard would be greatly appreciated,” Devon said.

  “As you can imagine, we had to cancel school for the week. No power. And we don’t have a generator.” David gave a rueful shrug. “Budget cuts. Anyway, most of the teachers are at home, but I’m happy to answer any questions you have. It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we walk and talk?”

  Jackson and Devon fell into step on either side of the principal. David Kepford carried himself like a soldier, back straight, shoulders square, his stride long and confident. Jackson recalled something about a military stint in Afghanistan years ago.

  Devon took out her notebook and flipped it open. “How was Cody’s behavior in the last few days? Anything unusual leading up to the homicide?”

  “Cody wasn’t at school on Monday. But that’s not unusual for him. I do recall seeing Shiloh standing alone by the bike racks after school.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Devon asked.

  “Cody is smart, but he doesn’t apply himself. He’s quiet. Serious. He’s always sketching in a notebook. Truancy is a real problem. I checked; he missed twenty-six days over the last school year.”

  “He ever talk about what things are like at home?” Jackson asked.

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “How about things you or other teachers observed?” Jackson asked. “Cuts or bruises. Unusual behavior.”

  “Those kids always have bruises. Shiloh climbs trees, falls off boulders, running around those two hundred acres like she owns it. Cody, not really. He’s pale. Doesn’t get enough sun. But there’s never been anything obvious. Nothing actionable.”

  Jackson nodded. Easton, even hammered, had still been smart. If he had hurt his grandchildren, he wouldn’t leave obvious bruises.

  “It’s more a feeling, that haunted look they both have. But then, they’ve experienced trauma at the brutal loss of their mother. Maybe it’s that.”

  “Maybe,” Jackson echoed.

  “Any friends we can talk to?” Devon asked.

  “Cody is a loner. Sits by himself. Eats by himself. Never participates in sports or after-school programs, except LEGO Robotics. He did get into that this year. I don’t think anyone really knows him, other than Shiloh.”

  They reached the field behind the school. David halted before a fresh white line. Across the field, a figure bent over the grass with a can of spray paint. Two soccer goals stood on either end. The grass was too high, like it needed a haircut.

  The man straightened and waved at them. He wore oversized denim overalls and scuffed brown work boots. White paint splattered his hairy forearms.

  “Who’s that?” Devon asked.

  “Calvin Fitch, the janitor. He does whatever odd jobs we need done around here.”

  “We’d like to talk to him,” Devon asked.

  The principal waved the janitor over. Jackson and Devon waited. The sun shone bright overhead. A raft of white clouds drifted above the trees. The temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees, no wind, but rain was in the forecast. And another solar storm.

  When Fitch reached them, they politely excused themselves to speak to him privately. Whenever possible, they interviewed potential witnesses alone.

  “What can I do ya for?” Fitch still carried the can of spray paint. He was overweight, with slouching shoulders and lanky, dun-colored hair.

  “We’d like to ask you about Cody and Shiloh Easton,” Jackson said.

  “Who?” Fitch’s eyes clouded, then cleared. “Oh. Yeah. I know them. Don’t talk to the girl much. I’ve seen the boy around after school sometimes.”

  “Where exactly?” Devon asked.

  He stared at them, his eyes squinty in a wide, plain face. “Out near the field. Meeting with other kids.”

  “Meeting them? Like for what?” Devon asked.

  Fitch gave an exaggerated shrug. “Just telling you what I see. They talk like I’m not around, like they don’t see me. But I hear things.”

  “Can you give us specifics?” Jackson asked.


  “If they want something, for a party. You know, they say to talk to Cody.”

  “Something like what?” Devon prodded.

  “You know. Pills. Uppers. Downers. That sort of thing.”

  “Drugs,” Jackson said flatly. He pushed down a wave of anger. Kids dealing drugs in middle school. What the hell. Drugs in Munising usually traced back to one place—James Sawyer.

  Fitch shrugged again. His expression was dull, his words slow. “I dunno. I do my work. Keep my head down. But that’s what I heard.”

  Devon asked him a few more questions, but Calvin Fitch didn’t have anything further to add. Jackson thanked him, and he shuffled back to the field, shaking the can of spray paint.

  They walked back to the principal, who was waiting for them. They didn’t say anything about the drugs, for now.

  “Has Cody ever been violent?” Devon asked. “Got into fights?”

  The principal ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, there was an incident. It happened after school a few months ago, during the Robotics club. Walter Boone is here, in the coach’s office. He was there.”

  Jackson and Devon exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. Boone had discovered the body.

  “Let’s talk to him,” Jackson said.

  The principal led them inside the building, through darkened hallways lined with lockers to a small office off the gymnasium. He remained in the gym.

  Boone sat behind a metal desk, typing on a laptop. Behind him, an opened window let in light and fresh air. Bookcases were decorated with photos of LEGO projects and beaming students. A few third-place ribbons were tacked to the wall. A pair of binoculars hung on a hook by the door.

  “You must be here about the murder,” he said in a mild voice.

  “We are.” Devon glanced down at her notebook. “We understand you found the victim.”

  “Not something you ever expect to see, especially not up here. It’s a terrible thing, a horrible thing. Truthfully, I’ve had nightmares. Have you arrested anyone yet?”