Violent Crimes (11 page)

Kenny Drucker and Larry Getz were supposed to go to summer school because they had flunked several of their eighth-grade classes, but the sun was warm and a light breeze stirred the summer air, making the day too delightful to be spent cooped up in a classroom. Both boys were being raised by single working mothers who always urged them to try hard in school even though they knew in their hearts that their sons would do nothing of the sort. That day, the boys assured their mothers that they would apply themselves diligently to their studies. Then, as soon as their mothers left for work, they filled their backpacks with cigarettes, beer, and marijuana and set out on a day of adventure.

On their way downtown the boys crossed a vacant lot. A car was parked on the other side and the boys would have passed it by if it wasn't for the foul odor that assailed Larry's nostrils.

“What's that smell?” he asked.

“That's some awful shit,” Kenny replied as he waved his hand in front of his nose.

“It's coming from the trunk.”

Larry leaned down, then pulled back quickly.

“Man, that's gross,” he said.

“Let's go,” Kenny urged his friend.

“No, bro, something ain't right.”

Larry held his breath and squatted next to the trunk. It wasn't locked. Should he or shouldn't he?

“What's in that trunk ain't none of our business,” Kenny said.

“Don't be a pussy.”

Kenny's reticence decided Larry's course of action, and he raised the trunk to show Kenny that he wasn't afraid. As soon as the trunk lid flipped up, Larry jumped backward so fast that he stumbled and fell on his ass. Then he scrambled away from the car and leaped to his feet.

“What did you see?” Kenny asked.

“There's two guys stuffed in the trunk.”

“Are they dead?”

“What do you think is making that smell, fool?”

“We got an ID on the dead men in the car trunk,” Billie Brewster told Alan Hotchkiss. Hotchkiss was talking on the phone and he raised a finger to indicate he couldn't listen until he was done with his call.

It had taken Billie a while to find the men's identities because neither had a wallet or any other ID on them and the car in
which they had been found had been stolen from a shopping mall parking lot.

Hotchkiss made some notes before hanging up. “Okay,” he said as he swiveled his chair in Brewster's direction.

“Neil Schaeffer and Richard Schultz,” Brewster said. “Schaeffer is thirty-five and Schultz is thirty-three. We were able to identify them because both men are ex-military and their fingerprints were on file. Schultz was an Army Ranger and Schaeffer was Special Forces. Both men saw combat and were honorably discharged.”

“What have they done since leaving the military?” Hotchkiss asked.

“They're private eyes, the co-owners of Confidential Investigations.”

The tiny storefront office of Confidential Investigations was in a suburban strip mall sandwiched between a shoe repair shop and a Vietnamese restaurant. The detectives had found the door locked and had gotten a key after showing the manager of the mall their search warrant. The door opened into a small waiting area outfitted with a cheap wooden table covered with old copies of sports and outdoor magazines. The table stood between a worn sofa and an uncomfortable wooden chair.

“No secretary's desk,” Hotchkiss observed.

“From the décor, I'm guessing they didn't have many customers,” Brewster added.

The detectives entered an inner office that held two desks and a metal filing cabinet. The desks were bare of any papers
and there was nothing in the in and out boxes. Brewster opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet. There weren't many files in the top two drawers and there were none in the bottom drawer. Brewster opened a few files and frowned as she pawed through them.

“According to the manager, Schaeffer and Schultz have been working out of this office for three years, but it doesn't look like they had enough business to make a decent living,” she said.

“Yeah, this place is bare bones, which makes you wonder. Did you see Schaeffer's address?”

“A condo on the waterfront.”

“I investigated a case in that building last year. It's very expensive.”

“Schaeffer retired from the military. He's single. If he had a decent pension he might have been able to swing it. Or . . .”

Brewster pulled two files out of a drawer. “These boys were working for oil companies in Nigeria and the Middle East.”

“What kind of work?”

“The files don't say much but—given their military backgrounds—I wouldn't be surprised if they were security, and that can pay very well.”

RENCO Oil owned a ten-story glass-and-steel building in the center of parkland near the Nike campus in Beaverton, a Portland suburb. Alan Hotchkiss showed his ID at the gated entrance, then waited while the armed guard called ahead to verify the detectives' appointment. The guard directed them to a parking area, and Hotchkiss followed the tree-lined lane to it.

“You've been quiet,” Brewster said.

“I know Reggie Kiner.”

“How?”

“Before he went private, Kiner was Greg Nowicki's partner.”

“When was that?”

“Nine, maybe ten years ago.”

“You don't like him?”

“Not one bit. His record with PPB won't show it, but there were a lot of questions that stayed unanswered when he left.”

“Such as?” Brewster asked as Hotchkiss maneuvered into a space.

“Missing drugs and disparities between the money confiscated from drug dealers and the money found in the evidence room when their cases came to trial. And then there was the unexplained disappearance of a witness and the shooting death of a drug dealer.”

“He sounds like a bad cop.”

“He was a bad cop.”

“So what's he doing as head of security for an outfit like RENCO?”

“From what I hear about the way they operate overseas, he fits in perfectly.”

“Hey, Reg,” Hotchkiss said when Kiner's secretary showed the detectives into his corner office. The security chief was wearing a blue hand-tailored pin-striped suit, a blue silk shirt, and a yellow Hermes tie.

“Long time no see,” Kiner said as he extended his hand. His
grip was as firm as Hotchkiss had expected, and the detective braced for the pressure Kiner would apply. Hotchkiss was as strong and fit as Kiner, and the handshake ended in a draw.

“This is my partner, Billie Brewster,” Hotchkiss said.

Kiner nodded to Billie, then motioned the detectives toward a sofa that sat under an elk's taxidermied head. Kiner took a comfortable armchair and crossed one leg over the other.

“What's up?” Kiner asked.

“We're investigating a double homicide. Richard Schultz was beaten and shot, and Neil Schaeffer died from blows to the head. They were found in the trunk of a stolen car.”

Kiner's brow furrowed. “And you've come to see me because . . . ?”

“The men are ex-military and they owned a private detective agency. We found records in their office showing that they worked on a Nigerian oil rig for RENCO. The records were vague as to their actual job, but given their military background I'm guessing they provided security.”

Kiner frowned. “Those names do sound vaguely familiar. Do you have a photo?”

Brewster held out her smartphone and showed Kiner pictures of the two men after they'd been cleaned up in the morgue. Kiner didn't flinch.

“You know, I think I may have seen them but I can't remember where. When did they work for us?”

“Their files said five years ago.”

Kiner stared into space. Then he shook his head.

“I'll get HR to send me their files and I'll get back to you if I think of anything that would help. Anything else I can do?”

Hotchkiss looked at Billie. She shook her head and Hotchkiss stood up. “Thanks, Reg, I appreciate the cooperation.”

“No problem.”

Kiner watched the detectives leave before returning to his desk. This was an unexpected turn of events, and he did not like surprises. One thing was certain: He'd underestimated Tom Beatty. He'd known he was military but he'd assumed that Schultz and Schaeffer would be able to take care of him since they had been armed and had the element of surprise. He would not make that mistake again.

One question nagged at Kiner. Did Schultz and Schaeffer talk to Beatty before he killed them? If Beatty interrogated them, he probably knew that Kiner had sent them. He'd have to double his bodyguard detail and send some more people to find Beatty. But where would they look? Beatty had elite training and could go to ground where he would never be noticed. He'd start a search, but he would probably have to wait until Beatty came to him.

Kiner thought some more and realized that they had another problem. With Beatty alive, Amanda Jaffe would still have a reason to pursue a theory of defense involving Masterson, Hamilton's books. Killing her would not solve the problem, because Beatty would get another lawyer who would use the books to prove other people had a motive to kill Christine Larson. But Jaffe could be useful. If Beatty contacted her, they could use her to find him. So, the first priority would be to have Jaffe put under surveillance and to tap all of her phones and penetrate her e-mails. Kiner knew just the people for those jobs.

Amanda had won the 200-meter freestyle at the PAC-10 championships when she swam for Cal-Berkeley and had qualified for the Olympic Trials. After she failed to make the Olympic team, she burned out and stayed away from pools until she returned to Portland to join her father's firm. Though she had lost all interest in swimming competitively, she began to feel that she was turning into a blob, so she'd started swimming for exercise and tried to get in three to four days of vigorous workouts each week before going to the office.

On Monday morning, Amanda thought about Brandon Masterson as she swam her laps. Brandon had agreed to let Amanda represent him as long as she agreed that they would go to trial so he could testify. Amanda acceded to Brandon's request because the desires of a client were always paramount. An attorney was an adviser who did not suffer any consequences if a case was lost. If Brandon was convicted he faced a lengthy incarceration or
death, so he had to make the ultimate choices in his case. To paraphrase an old adage, a lawyer could lead a client to water but could not make him drink. Amanda could advise Brandon on the best way to go in his case, but she could not force him to take her advice. And, from a practical standpoint, there was no sense in trying to change Brandon's mind about going to trial until she knew more about the case.

After her swim, Amanda drove downtown and picked up a café latte at the Nordstrom coffee bar. When she entered her office, she found that Kate Ross had left the discovery in Brandon's case for her. Amanda took a few sips from her latte as she checked her e-mails. Then she read through the police, forensic, and autopsy reports. As she was reading the autopsy report, an odd feeling began to form in Amanda's gut. Masterson's nose had been broken, both eyes had been swollen shut, there was a depressed fracture at the base of his skull, his lower and upper jaws had been broken, there were lacerations on his face, and the skin on his ears and lips had been split.

When she finished reading Masterson's autopsy, Amanda went to the file in Tom Beatty's murder case and reread Christine Larson's autopsy report. The way Dale Masterson was beaten to death was eerily similar to the beating that had killed Christine Larson. It was almost as if the person who killed Masterson had been using Larson's autopsy report as a road map.

Amanda leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her latte. If Tom Beatty was innocent, that meant someone else had murdered Christine Larson. The only motive for Christine's murder that Amanda had been able to come up with involved Christine's idea that someone at her law firm was cooking the
books. Christine had told Dale Masterson about her suspicions and she had died soon after. Now Masterson was dead, killed in a manner that mimicked Christine's murder. Were Christine and Masterson murdered by the same person?

Amanda stared into space. There was no reason on earth to believe that Brandon Masterson had murdered Christine. If Amanda could prove that the same person killed Christine and Dale Masterson, it would raise a very reasonable doubt about Brandon's guilt—which meant that this was a theory that needed to be explored.

There were some other items in the discovery that made Amanda pause. All the blood in the den was Masterson's, and no traces of skin or blood from anyone else had been recovered from the crime scene. The obvious conclusion was that Masterson's assailant had worn gloves when he pummeled his victim, and that raised some questions for Amanda that she wanted Brandon to answer.

Amanda also made a note to find out if the blood spatter on Brandon's clothing was consistent with the type of spatter pattern you would find on the clothing of someone who'd beaten a person to death.

Finally, Amanda noted that soil and some kind of berry had been found near the body. She had read an article in a law journal about using pollen to solve cases, but she couldn't remember the details. She resolved to reread it if the soil and berries became important.

Brandon was going to be arraigned in three hours. That gave her enough time to do some work on a memo she was writing in a federal bank robbery case and to grab a quick lunch before
heading to the Multnomah County Courthouse. Amanda finished her latte and put the Masterson file to one side.

Amanda had told Sarah Hartmann to wait for her on a bench across from the elevator on the floor below the courtroom where Brandon was going to be arraigned. Hartmann walked over to her son's attorney as soon as Amanda stepped out of the elevator.

“Why did you want me to meet you here?” Brandon's mother asked.

“I wanted to prepare you for the circus we'll find when we get near the courtroom. Reporters, television cameras, and the curious are going to be lining the corridor, and everyone will be firing questions at you as we run the gauntlet.”

Hartmann looked nervous. “What should I do?”

“Don't say anything and stay right behind me. We'll be fine once we're inside the courtroom.”

“How . . . how does Brandon's case look?”

Amanda touched Hartmann's forearm and looked directly at her. “I'm not going to sugarcoat this, because it won't do anyone any good to avoid reality. Your son is in a lot of trouble. He told the police that he killed your ex-husband, and he was seen leaving the crime scene covered in blood.”

Hartmann inhaled.

“There are still things I can do for him, but I don't want to get your hopes up.”

“Thank you for being honest.”

“Now, let's get going,” Amanda said. “Our judge does not appreciate lawyers who are late to court.”

The two women climbed the stairs. As soon as they rounded the corner and started down the corridor to the courtroom, a mob surrounded them and started peppering them with questions. Amanda smiled confidently for the cameras as she muscled her way through the crowd, answering the questions with clichés that revealed nothing.

Every seat in the spectator section of the courtroom was occupied, and it seemed to Amanda that every head swiveled toward her as soon as she stepped inside.

“This was probably what it was like in the Roman Coliseum when the Christians were fed to the lions,” Amanda said to Hartmann as she threaded her way through the people who were standing in the aisle, waiting for court to begin. Kate Ross had saved a spot for Hartmann on the bench behind the low rail that separated the spectators from the area of the court where business was conducted. Amanda pushed through a gate and walked to her counsel table.

Larry Frederick and Cathy Prieto-Smith were sitting at an identical table.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Amanda said as she set out her laptop and papers.

Larry smiled, and she was glad to see he wasn't upset with her the way he'd been during the Beatty case. Of course, any case with an eyewitness and a signed confession was going to bring a smile to a prosecutor's face.

“Ready to pull another rabbit out of your hat, Amanda?” Frederick asked.

“Not bloody likely in this one, Larry. I'll just be trying to keep Mr. Masterson off death row.”

The deputies brought Brandon over to join Amanda. The defendant spotted his mother. She smiled, and he looked uncertain. Then he turned his back on her and sat next to his lawyer. Hartmann's smile vanished, leaving her looking very sad.

The bailiff banged his gavel and Judge Valerie Chastain took the bench. Chastain was a delicate-looking woman in her late fifties who had been a partner in a firm that specialized in employment law. Her gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and soft blue eyes made her look like a favorite fun-loving aunt, but Amanda knew from experience that Chastain was a no-nonsense jurist who did not tolerate fools or the unprepared.

“This is the time set for the arraignment in
State v. Brandon Jerome Masterson
,” Larry Frederick intoned. “Larry Frederick and Cathy Prieto-Smith for the government, Your Honor. The defendant and his attorney, Amanda Jaffe, are present.”

“I'm looking at this indictment, and it charges the defendant with aggravated murder,” Judge Chastain said. “Do you intend to seek the death penalty, Mr. Frederick?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Okay then, Miss Jaffe. How does your client plead?”

Amanda signaled Brandon to stand. She had told him to answer “Not Guilty” when this moment occurred.

Brandon stood. “Not guilty!” he proclaimed loudly. “I killed my father in self-defense. He was a fascist who was trying to murder the people of Earth by representing polluting coal and oil companies who are destroying our planet for profit.”

Amanda laid a hand on Brandon's forearm, but he shook it off.

“Global Mining, RENCO Oil, and his other clients are worse than the Nazis. They—”

Judge Chastain brought her gavel down hard several times.

“Silence your client, Miss Jaffe, or I'll have the guards do it,” she yelled to be heard over Brandon's rant.

“Brandon, this is not the time or place to do this,” Amanda said.

“I have a right under the Constitution of the United States to free speech. The people have to know that the Earth is being poisoned before the ice caps melt and tsunamis flood this city and—”

Two burly jail deputies pushed Brandon onto his chair.

“Don't hurt him,” Amanda said to the guards as Brandon struggled.

“I will not be silenced!” Brandon screamed.

Sarah Hartmann brought a hand to her mouth and struggled to choke back tears.

“Take him out,” Judge Chastain ordered, and the guards pulled Brandon to his feet and hustled him out of the courtroom.

“You better have a long talk with Mr. Masterson,” the judge told Amanda. “Explain that I will have him gagged and put in chains if he keeps this up. We'll adjourn until Mr. Masterson is under control.”

The guards had placed Brandon in a holding cell. When Amanda walked in, Brandon stared at her defiantly.

“Look, Brandon, I know you're on a mission, but you've got to pick your spots. Judge Chastain won't tolerate another outburst.
She told me she'll gag you and put you in manacles if you sound off again like that.”

“I have a constitutional right to speak about injustice,” he repeated stubbornly.

Amanda sighed as she sat down. “Did you listen to what I just said? If I can't promise the judge that you won't start making speeches again she'll order the deputies to gag you. Then you will not only be silenced but you'll also look ridiculous trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Brandon folded his arms across his skinny chest.

“Look, you'll get your chance to get your point across. When you take the stand at your trial you can explain why you killed your father. That's the time to do it. The reporters will take down what you say and your message will be broadcast to the world. Have some patience. When you act out like you just did, you look deranged and people won't take your message seriously.”

Brandon didn't respond. He just tightened his arms across his chest and glared at Amanda, who noticed that there were no cuts or bruises on Brandon's knuckles. That reminded her of something she wanted to go over with him. With luck, he'd be distracted by the discussion.

“While we're here, I wanted to tell you that I read the discovery in your case; I'll get you a copy tomorrow. But I have some questions for you. I've seen the crime scene photographs. They're pretty gruesome. I mean, you really did a tune on your dad's face. Can you tell me how many times you hit your father?”

Brandon looked down. He seemed nervous.

“I don't remember,” Brandon said. “I was in a rage.”

“Your father was a pretty big guy, and he looked fit. Plus I
understand he wrestled in college. But you don't look that marked up.”

“Yeah, well, my adrenaline was pumping and I got a lucky punch in early and he went down. After that I don't remember what happened until I was outside.”

“If you hit your father enough times to cause the injuries I saw on his face, why don't you have any marks on your knuckles?”

Brandon hesitated. Then he said, “Gloves, I wore gloves.”

Amanda didn't remember anything in the discovery about Veronica Masterson telling the police that Brandon was wearing gloves when she saw him running from her house.

“Do you still have the gloves?”

“I got rid of them. They . . . they were covered with blood and I knew they could incriminate me.”

Amanda smiled. “You've done a pretty good job of that yourself. I mean, you've confessed that you murdered your father. So why get rid of evidence that would corroborate your confession?”

“I . . . I hadn't made my mind up about confessing until I had some time to think. I made up my mind after I threw the gloves away.”

“Where did you throw them?”

“I don't remember. Some garbage can. And don't ask me where it is. I was pretty upset.”

“You told the detectives that you acted in self-defense? He was coming at you and you defended yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You also told the detectives that you wanted to kill your father as a warning to lawyers who represent polluters and to
encourage other people who care about the environment to kill lawyers and CEOs who work for polluters.”

“Yes, that's what I hoped killing my father will accomplish.”

“So, which is it? Did you go to the house to kill your father or did you go to try and convince him to stop representing Global Mining and he came at you and you acted in self-defense.”

“Both. I . . . I was going to kill him if he refused to drop Global as a client.”

“Did you bring a gun with you?”

“No, I . . . I don't believe in guns. I'm in favor of banning handguns.”

“Did you have a knife or some other weapon with you?”

“No.”

“So your plan all along was to beat your father to death?”

Brandon hesitated before answering, “Yes.”