Free Dying for Justice by L. J. Sellers Page A

cigarette butt, a small black comb, and photos of muddy shoe prints near the front porch. The cigarette butt had started to degrade but the DNA in the saliva should still be there. Where was the debris from the carpet? He turned to Parker. “Do you remember if you worked this case? A couple in their mid-fifties shot in their living room in South Eugene?”
    Parker nodded. “I rode to the scene with Walters. He was the supervisor then. He collected trace from the bodies while I took fingerprints. After about an hour, the detectives got word that patrol cops had picked up a suspect. They cleared out soon after.” A flash of worry crossed Parker’s face. “Eventually, I heard the victims were the parents of a cop, but I didn’t know you then and I never made the connection until today.”
    “Do you remember anything unusual about the case?”
    “It was one of my first so I had little basis for comparison. Looking back, I now see that the investigators spent very little time in the house.”
    Jackson realized he was making her uncomfortable. “I’m glad to have you working the case with me now.”
    “I’ll go through our files and find every test and analysis we conducted at the time.”
    “Thanks, Parker. If you think of anything specific from your own memory, I’d like to hear about it right away.” Jackson started loading the evidence bags back into the crate. He hadn’t expected to discover much, but he was a visual person and needed to see things for himself.
    As he headed out, Parker called after him, “There was something unusual. Your moth–” She stopped and corrected herself. “The female victim had a hundred-dollar bill under her body. I heard the ME make a joke about it. When the handyman was caught with the cash box, I assumed the bill had been dropped in the struggle.” Parker stepped toward him. “But if Vargas left before your parents came home, how did the money get under her body?”
    “And why isn’t that bill in the evidence crate?”

Chapter 8

    Tuesday, September 7, 5:55 a.m.
    Evans woke before her alarm went off, as she did every work morning, and felt groggy from not sleeping well. The recurring nightmare she’d had through her early twenties had come back with a vengeance. She’d have to buy melatonin on the way home tonight and see if it helped. Seven years had passed since she’d had the rape dream. Goddamn Gary Bekker.
    After brewing a tall cup of Italian roast, she sat down at her computer to read the news. Her browser opened to her favorite sites and she skimmed through, taking in the main points of five or so articles while she drank her coffee. Evans checked her email, disappointed she hadn’t heard back from Mason. She’d met him at the climbing gym last week and they’d had coffee afterward and exchanged emails. She’d hoped they would hook up. Celibacy was making her cranky.
    At 6:45, she changed into workout clothes, grabbed her iPod, and headed for the spare bedroom. Cranking up some techno music, she began a vigorous kickboxing workout, followed by forty pushups and an intense round of Aikido practice. She couldn’t alter the fact that she was five-five and female, but she refused to feel weak and she would never let herself be victimized again.
    Two years before, she’d padded the floors and walls with thick mats so she could take falls and practice flying kicks. At the time, she’d been dating a guy who liked to spar and they’d spent a lot of time in the workout room…and the bedroom. Their relationship had been intensely physical. After Zack tore a hamstring during a particularly robust round of sex, they couldn’t spar or screw for a while and she realized they had nothing important in common. He seemed almost relieved when she broke it off.
    Still wet with sweat, Evans fried a pork chop for breakfast and wolfed it like a starving animal. She craved carbs, but if she ate them after a workout they made her sleepy. She checked the time, then showered