Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) by L.J. Sellers Page B

who knew the code could enter. She pulled out her recorder and made a verbal note to ask the owner for a list of everyone who knew the code and how often it was changed. The idea of an insider intrigued her. River was reminded of the animal-rights activists who went to work for the poultry or pork companies to secretly record what they considered to be atrocious conditions. She admired their dedication to their cause. But she still didn’t understand the hostility toward the bottled water company.
    Had anyone dusted the entry for prints? River had called one of the bureau’s evidence technicians on the way over and left a message, but she hadn’t heard back or seen him yet. River took pictures of the door and key code, and headed toward the openoverhead door in the middle of the building. She nearly bumped into a tall Asian woman wearing a long black raincoat and carrying a large dark case.
    “Excuse me. I’m Agent River.”
    “Jasmine Parker, with EPD crime lab.”
    “Sergeant Lammers called you out?”
    “She called everyone.” Jasmine’s face was expressionless, but her eyes held mirth.
    River smiled. “I appreciate you working tonight. Someone from our evidence response team should be here soon too. Please coordinate with him and let me know what you find.” River handed her a business card.
    “I will.” The tall woman stepped under the door’s awning to get out of the rain. “Good luck.”
    “Thanks.” River never counted on luck to solve her cases, but every law enforcement officer knew that serendipity often played a role in their outcomes.
    The fire trucks left the parking lot as River approached the overhead door. Bruckner gave her the signal that she could enter the building. The stench of burned wood and metal made her eyes water, but at first glance she didn’t see any damage. The bottling lines were intact, and she wouldn’t be surprised to hear they were back in operation soon.
    Past the conveyor belts, she spotted the burned area near a short hallway. Unlike the high-ceilinged metal exterior, the interior rooms had been constructed of wood and drywall, and the perp had placed the device strategically to start a fire. Two men stood at the edge of the blackened area, pointing and talking. River introduced herself, then learned that the older man was the fire chief and the stout guy with the sideburns was a police sergeant with specialized training in explosive devices.
    “What have we got?” she asked.
    “An incendiary device set off by a homemade detonator,” the fire chief said. “A crude but effective firebomb.”
    “The night watchman saw a metal cylinder attached to a stick of dynamite. Have you seen anything like it used here locally before?”
    “No.”
    The bomb expert added, “We haven’t had any eco-terrorism in Eugene since the feds convicted most of the Earth Liberation Front. But your office would know more about that.”
    “The key word there is
most
,” River said. “We believe three members left the country and are still at large. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover they’d come home.” The international organization had contained a subgroup that lived mostly in and around Eugene, but they had damaged lumber mills, ranger stations, and other targets all over Oregon and Washington. In Eugene, they’d burned a car lot full of gas-guzzling SUVs.
    “Bastards.” The fire chief almost spit the word.
    “What else can you tell me?”
    “Not much until we analyze the evidence and see what liquid was used.”
    The bureau would do that at Quantico. “Show me the fire’s point of origin.”
    The fire chief led her across the blackened floor and down the short hallway. “I believe the perp placed the incendiary device about here.”
    A chunk of wall was completely burned out, leaving only the metal trusses on the concrete floor.
    “He chose this spot because of the wood and drywall, I assume.” River was looking for confirmation.
    “Looks like it. I don’t think