still missing and Rip was on his way to Twin Bridges morgue. That left Justice Bear.
The fire marshal’s report had been waiting for Logan when he got to Duke’s office, but he hadn’t had time to read it. He’d grabbed it, along with incident reports he’d need to fill out concerning Rip Jackson’s death, before leaving. He’d planned to study the fire marshal’s findings after filling out the incident report at the bar, but he turned and opened the door to his truck and pulled out the manila file folder. Using his cell phone as a light, he scanned the report, searching for the deceased listed. When he found that section of the report, his jaw ticked. There were only two bodies listed and Justice Bear wasn’t one of them.
“Where the fuck is Justice Bear?”
Logan looked back at the mortuary.
Cremated?
Tossing the file folder into his cab, Logan moved around to the bed and climbed inside. He dug through his tools until he found his flashlight, then hopped down and headed across the street. The snow had covered the damage with a blanket of pristine white, but the cremator stood in sharp relief against the snow, like a small cave beckoning shelter for local wildlife.
Timbers had been moved and stacked, clearing a path for the fire marshal to do his work. He’d met the man Ennis had appointed to the position. He was in his sixties and more than ready to retire. He also wore thick glasses. The kind that said his eyesight had long since passed 20/20 vision.
Once he reached the cremator, Logan crouched and shined the light inside what was left of the structure. Snow had blown inside, hiding what was left of the burners used to bake a body into ashes. He flicked his light to the dials and gauges that controlled the gas and flames. The model was old. He’d seen modern-day crematories. Most were controlled electronically, with sliding doors and digital displays. This model had a single iron door that opened out, allowing the crib—the table the body lay on during cremation—to extend outside the brick furnace. It looked similar to a submarine hatch, with a small peephole to observe the cremation process. An electronic ignitor had been added at some point, but to light the furnace, Frank still had to turn the gas valve on by hand.
Logan directed his light at the gas valve and turned the handle counterclockwise to see if it was open. When it didn’t budge, he turned it to the right. It rotated easily, indicating the gas line had been wide open at the time of the explosion.
That itch, which had turned into a burn, was now on fire.
He turned his flashlight back inside the cremator and noted the snow hadn’t been touched around the crib or burners. It had started snowing early afternoon the day before and according to the weather report, Ennis had received at least twelve inches. The inside of the cremator held at least that much or more. If it had been searched during the investigation the day before, he would have expected to see half that amount.
Whipping out his phone, he dialed the number the mayor had given him. “This is Jordan Blake,” the voice stated, sounding distracted. Logan could hear small children in the background squealing.
“Mayor, this is Logan Storm.”
“Hold a moment, Chief Storm, I need to step inside the garage to hear. My grandchildren are baking cookies with my wife.”
Logan gritted his teeth at the Chief Storm remark. They could look elsewhere once he’d solved Duke’s disappearance. He preferred busting heads in the bar to sitting behind a desk and dealing with bureaucracy.
“Now I can hear. Tell me what happened to Rip Jackson.”
“Won’t know until an autopsy is completed.”
“Autopsy! Why?”
“The man died without any witnesses. He has a laceration across his forehead that may or may not have been caused by a fall. Until I know for sure how it got there, I can’t close the investigation.”
“Chief Storm, Duke and Frank normally made the formal call without involving the sheriff or the county cor—”
“Mayor, all due respect, but I’m not Duke. I’m ex-military. During my enlistment we policed villages and kept order when needed. Any deaths had to be investigated by the book, no matter how cut-and-dried they appeared. Rip Jackson died either by falling and hitting his head, or at the hand of someone else. The county coroner will let me know which and then I’ll proceed from there.”
Blake seemed to hesitate before