Page 5 of Copper

Coleson looks like he rolled out of bed to report to the crime scene. His suit is rumpled like he’d already thrown it in the hamper after work and threw it on after he got the call. His dark salt and pepper hair is mussed around the bangs, and he has bags under his eyes. He’s been working the George Cannon case around the clock with zero results. Nobody saw anyone coming or going from Cannon’s place and there’s no DNA evidence left. Whoever cut up Cannon didn’t knick themselves in the process. They used Cannon’s own Sawzall to cut him up. There are no prints in sight. No hair. Coleson only has some fibers that are denim and cotton blends. Nothing that every citizen in the county doesn’t already have in their closet.

Coleson’s been living on coffee and adrenaline. Now there’s another one. Two murders within a week, and we usually get two a year in the county.

As far as I can tell, we’re looking for a bald ghost that covers its footprints and wears gloves.

“Think it’s related to Cannon?”

He shrugs and chews on the toothpick in his mouth before adjusting his suit jacket, smoothing it for wrinkles. “They were killed differently. This guy was killed by blunt force trauma. No cutting up major parts. No slit throat. Maybe. I just don’t know.”

“What do we know so far?”

Coleson waves me into the dining room, and I’m careful to walk directly behind him to reduce the number of footsteps in the area. Forensics is already working the room and has little place card holders on the carpet where they’ve found evidence, whether it be fabric fibers or footsteps that don’t match the victim’s footprint. The carpet is plush in the dining room, a thick blanket of white with blood splashed in the center like a work of art at a gallery opening. The blood is reddish-brown, obviously congealing from air exposure over several days.

“Victim is Justin Hammons. Age thirty-one. No family. Foster kid growing up. The footprints are the landlady’s as far as we can tell. She’s giving us the shoes she was wearing when she found him so we can compare. So far, any footprints in the carpet are small.”

“Like the landlady’s. Any matching a man’s size?”

“Not yet.” He hands me a jar of vapor rub, and I dab it under my nose, the secret weapon of first responders to death scenes the world over.

“Any ex-wives or angry girlfriends?” I look around the place. The carpet is nice, and the dining room table screams money. A couple lines of cocaine are cut on a corner of the glass table. “Hookers?”

“We can’t find anything. The neighbors say he has women coming and going. We looked through his laptop in the living room. We’re taking that for evidence. Let me tell you, this guy’s real fucked up.” He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and points it at the victim behind the table on the floor. “Total asshole, if you ask me.”

Walking around the table, I find Justin Hammons staring at his ceiling fan with wide eyes. “Fucked up how?” I ask. I bend down and examine the Caucasian man whose skin is now navy blue. A fly lands on his ear as I watch.

“Incel from what I can see. He posted a lot on social media about a woman’s place. Rape fantasy shit on his computer. Some porn I don’t want to tell you about since you have two little girls.”

I remove a tongue depressor from my pocket. Careful not to hurt forensic research, I lift the man’s chin to look at his throat, making sure there are no cuts there.

Not even a shaving nick.

“So, you were a piece of shit in life, huh?” I ask more to myself. Fuck knows Justin Hammons isn’t answering. I can’t decide if I care, given the contents of his laptop.

“Any connection to Cannon that you can think of?”

Coleson chuckles. “Cannon was middle-aged, and this guy is in his early thirties. Probably not beers on weekends friends. The only connection they have is that nobody knows exactly what their respective jobs were.”

I turn to Coleson, squinting. “Both unemployed?”

He shrugs. “This place screams money and so did Cannon’s. It’s possible they did something unsavory under the table.”

“Hm,” I hum, thinking and looking around the room. “What did you say the cause of death was?”

“Blunt force trauma on the back of the head.”

“Forced entry?”

“Nope. Either he knew the attacker or he left his door unlocked.”

“Was it locked when the landlady came in to check?” I ask, still squatting on the floor. Something scratches at my brain.

“I’ll check. She’s still pretty upset and incoherent. We’re getting her calm first.”

“Do we have files on these guys for anything?”

“Cannon was clean. This guy had a rap sheet a mile long but it was for petty shit. Nothing that would result in serving substantial time. Domestic violence about ten years ago, resulting in a restraining order. He got it for knocking around a girlfriend. One incident of shoplifting that resulted in probation. Assault charges that were dropped after a bar brawl. Suspended license for unpaid tickets. Possession of marijuana before it was legal. He got community service for that one since it was a first drug offense.”

“Enough shit that he couldn’t get a regular job that requires a background check, though.” I look back through the doorway into the living room. Leather furniture. A gold watch on the coffee table. “Definitely getting paid for something.”

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