Violent Crimes (13 page)

Amanda was working on a brief when her intercom buzzed and her receptionist told her that Cathy Prieto-Smith was calling from the DA's office.

“What's up, Cathy?” Amanda said.

“Larry wanted me to call,” the assistant DA said. “Brandon Masterson is in the secure ward at the county hospital.”

“What happened?” Amanda asked, certain she already knew.

“Mr. Masterson harassed some members of the Aryan Brotherhood during their exercise period and they beat him unconscious.”

“How bad is the damage?”

“Mr. Masterson's nose is broken, he's lost a few teeth, and he probably has several broken ribs and a concussion.”

“I'm going to go up to the hospital to talk to him,” Amanda said. “Can you ask Larry to call and okay the visit?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, and please thank Larry for the heads-up.”

Amanda wasn't surprised to learn why Brandon was hospitalized. She could imagine how it happened. Brandon was abrasive and obnoxious and he would have been oblivious to the type of people he was berating. At first, the prisoners would have been amused when this puny weakling began insulting them, as if a Chihuahua had just snapped at their heels. But after a minute or so they would have lost patience with Brandon's continued insults. Brandon was used to arguing with educated, civilized people who used language to respond to arguments. Members of the Aryan Brotherhood would have countered Brandon's arguments with fists and feet, pounding him relentlessly for the sheer pleasure of inflicting pain on a helpless human being.

Amanda got out of the elevator on the third floor of the county hospital and walked over to an orderly dressed in white pants and a short-sleeve white shirt who sat at a wooden table to the right of a thick metal door.

“My name is Amanda Jaffe,” she said as she held out her driver's license and Bar Association card for inspection. “I'm Brandon Masterson's attorney, and I'd like to see him. I believe Larry Frederick of the District Attorney's Office called ahead.”

“Yeah, you're good to go,” the guard said before speaking into a radio. A few seconds later the metal door swung open. Another orderly was waiting on the other side.

“We have Mr. Masterson in a room at the end of the hall,” the second orderly said as he escorted Amanda between coffee-colored walls that formed the boundaries of a long hall that smelled faintly of disinfectant. A police officer was lounging in
front of another metal door. In the center of the door was a small, square window made of thick glass. The officer stood when he saw Amanda and the orderly approaching. Amanda held out her ID.

“The DA cleared Miss Jaffe's visit,” the orderly informed the officer.

“I heard,” the officer said.

The orderly unlocked the door to Brandon's austere hospital room, which was outfitted with a hospital bed, two plain metal chairs, and a squat chest of drawers. There were bars on the room's only window and pale light filtered through the grimed glass panes, casting murky striped shadows on the whitewashed wall.

Brandon's bed was cranked up so that he was partially sitting. Bandages covered the top of his head, his nose had been mangled, and his face was covered with bruises.

“Are you okay?” Amanda asked with sincere concern.

Brandon opened his torn lips, revealing gaps where his teeth had been kicked in.

“What do you care?” he managed.

Amanda didn't answer right away. She just stared at her client. He met her eyes for a moment, then looked down.

“Why do you build walls between you and people who want to help you, Brandon? Why do you try so hard to alienate everyone?”

Brandon turned his head toward the wall.

“You asked if I care,” Amanda said. “I care because you're a human being who is suffering and I always try to help someone in trouble when I can. You're also my client, and I take my representation of every client very seriously, especially when they're charged with a crime they didn't commit.”

Brandon swung his head back toward Amanda.

“You don't have to say a word, Brandon. You've probably been given pain medication, so you're not thinking straight. But try to remember what I'm going to tell you.

“When we met at the jail, I warned you about what prison life would be like. I hope this beating has taught you that you are not equipped to survive behind bars. I told you about the type of people you'd meet in jail. They are bullies and psychopaths. They are not rational. They have no interest in your positions on the environment. They're only interested in using pain to dominate the weak.

“I'm going to leave now. I talked to your doctor and I'm satisfied you'll survive this beating. I don't know if you'll be as lucky the next time. This crusade of yours, this planned martyrdom, is flawed, and I beg you to spend your time in the hospital giving serious thought to how you want to proceed with your case.”

Kate Ross and Billie Brewster had been friends when Kate was a Portland police officer, and they had reestablished their friendship when Billie was involved in the murder case that led to the arrest of Kate's boyfriend, Daniel Ames. Billie would help Kate by giving her inside information when it would not have an adverse impact on a police investigation, and Kate reciprocated when she learned something that would help in a case Billie was working. When they didn't want to be seen together they usually met on the Washington side of the Columbia River at Juniors Cafe, which was not frequented by members of the Portland Police Bureau. Juniors was a throwback where they served strong, black coffee but no lattes, and apple pie à la mode but never tiramisu.

“Since you want something from me, you're buying,” Billie said when Kate slid into the booth at the rear of the cafe.

“It's good to know you can be bought,” Kate said with a smile.

“For a slice of Juniors apple pie, always,” Billie said as she returned the smile.

A waitress appeared at their table and Billie asked for pie and coffee. Kate just ordered coffee.

“I hear Sherman is up for parole,” Kate said when the waitress left.

“He is, but I'm not holding my breath.”

When Billie was sixteen, her father had deserted the family. Billie's mother had been forced to work two jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over her children's heads, leaving Billie to raise her younger brother. She had tried her best, but Sherman had joined a gang and was now serving serious time at the state penitentiary for armed robbery.

“How's he doing?” Kate asked.

“Just fine,” Billie added with a trace of sadness. “Better than he'd do on the outside. He's
somebody
in prison, what with his gangster buddies. Outside the wall he'd be just another fuckup.”

Kate felt sorry for her friend. Even though no one else did, Billie blamed herself for not keeping Sherman on the straight and narrow.

“So,” Billie said, “why are you bribing me with Juniors pie?”

“It's Brandon Masterson's case. I know Brandon confessed, but Amanda and I have serious reservations about his guilt.”

Kate looked at Billie for a reaction, but Billie gave nothing away.

“We think there's a possibility that Masterson was murdered because of something that was going on at his firm.”

“Like what?”

“We heard that someone high up cooked the firm's books to
make its financial position look better than it was when it was courting Global Mining.”

“Alan told me that Amanda made that allegation in court when she was representing the paralegal in the Christine Larson case.”

“Have you heard any scuttlebutt that supports Amanda's theory?”

“No. What else makes you think your client is innocent?” Billie asked.

“There's the break-in at Dale Masterson's office on the evening he was killed. That seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“True, but your boy could have done it.”

“That is a possibility,” Kate conceded. “Have you figured out if anything was taken?”

“Masterson's hard drive was copied, but nothing else appears to be missing.”

“I assume Masterson's computer was password-protected. How did the thief get in?”

“With Masterson's password.”

“So he tortured him for it before he killed him?”

“That's one hypothesis. But he could have known it already. Your client once lived with the victim and would have had many opportunities to learn Mr. Masterson's password.”

“You heard Brandon at the arraignment. He hated his father. If he found anything incriminating on Dale Masterson's computer, he would have spread it all over the Internet.”

“Maybe there wasn't anything incriminating on the computer,” Billie said.

“Have you examined the hard drive?”

“Mark Hamilton, the firm's senior partner, won't let us. He
says he's worried about us seeing confidential client information.”

“Or evidence that there was something wrong with the firm's books.”

“Hamilton says he's going to give us an edited printout after he's gone through the files.”

“Convenient,” Kate said. “He'll be able to scrub any incriminating evidence.”

“True. But our lawyers say there's nothing we can do about it.”

Billie paused to eat a piece of pie. Kate took the opportunity to sip her coffee. When she was finished chewing, Billie looked across the table at Kate.

“You still haven't told me why you think Brandon Masterson didn't kill his father?”

“I'm not sure Amanda would want me to tell you.”

Billie nodded. “I can accept that. I'm just wondering if it's not the same things that have me wondering.”

“Oh? What might those be?”

“I can't do all your work for you. You can draw your own conclusions after you read the report from the crime lab about the blood spatter. But there's another reason beside the blood spatter that makes me think your boy may be innocent, and you're not going to like it.”

“Oh?”

“The MO in Masterson's murder and the MO in Christine Larson's murder were so similar that Alan and I took a ride to Tom Beatty's house to talk to him. When we got there we found blood in Beatty's front room and had the crime lab analyze it. Just before you called to ask me to meet you here, I got a call from the crime lab. They made a match.”

“Don't keep me in suspense.”

“A few days after Beatty was released on bail, Richard Schultz and Neil Schaeffer were found in the trunk of a Chevy. Schultz had been shot to death and Schaeffer had been beaten to death. The lab matched Richard Schultz's blood to the blood on Beatty's floor.”

“Who is Richard Schultz?”

“He and Schaeffer were private investigators.”

“What connection does my client have to these guys?”

Billie raised an eyebrow. “You mean besides Schultz's blood being found in Beatty's house?”

“Don't be a wiseass. I should have asked if you've found any other connection between Beatty and Schultz.”

“There is one, but it's tenuous. Both dead men are ex-military who worked security for RENCO Oil in Nigeria.”

“Why is that a connection?” Kate asked.

“RENCO is a client of Masterson, Hamilton and Beatty worked at the firm. What's bothering me is that it's starting to look like Mr. Beatty likes to kill people. We've got Christine Larson in his bedroom beaten to death, Dale Masterson beaten to death in a way that mirrors Larson's murder, and two men murdered and stuffed in the trunk of a car, one of whom was beaten to death. Oh, and there is that poor bastard he beat up at the Lookout.”

“You've definitely given me something to think about.”

“Think hard. You and Amanda need to know who you're dealing with.”

“Thanks, Billie.”

“Yeah, well, despite the fact that you and your boss are representing the bad guys, I don't want to see you dead . . . although that
would
help my conviction rate.”

When the Jaffes needed an independent forensic expert, they used Paul Baylor, a slender, bookish African-American with degrees from Michigan State in forensic science and criminal justice. Paul had worked at the Oregon State Crime Lab for ten years before leaving to set up his own shop.

The offices of Oregon Forensic Investigations were located in an industrial park a few blocks from the Columbia River. Amanda walked up a ramp that led to a concrete walkway that ran in front of an export-import business and a construction firm. The last door on the walkway opened into a small anteroom furnished with two chairs that stood on either side of a low table covered with scientific journals. When Amanda walked in, Baylor's secretary looked up from a report she was typing and smiled.

“Paul's expecting you,” she said as she pressed the button on the intercom. Seconds later, the forensic expert walked out of a back room.

“Long time no see,” he said.

“Dad and I haven't had any cases with tricky forensic evidence lately.”

“Well, this time you gave me a real mystery to solve,” Paul said as he ushered Amanda into the spacious back room that held his lab.

“Oh?”

“Have a seat,” Paul said, gesturing toward a chair on the other side of an old desk. While Amanda settled into her chair, Baylor opened a file.

“Let me get the easy stuff out of the way. I went to the state crime lab and looked at the evidence. The blood spatter pattern on your client's clothing is inconsistent with the blood spatter pattern you'd expect if he was in a fight that caused so many open wounds. The blood on his shirt and pants is from the victim, but the patterns are consistent with someone who wiped blood on their clothes or knelt in blood.”

“Great!” Amanda said. “Now, what's the mystery?”

“There was a type of blackberry found in the den near Dale Masterson's body. The berries were mashed up and mixed in with some soil. The crime lab didn't analyze them because your client confessed and the detectives told them it wasn't a priority, but I got curious.

“It turns out that the berries are from pokeweed, or
Phytolacca
americana
. It's a nonwoody perennial that can grow from three to ten feet tall.”

“Why is that important?”

“Pokeweed doesn't grow in Oregon. It's most commonly found in the eastern United States or southeastern Canada. It does grow as far west as Texas, but it is not found in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Then what were its berries doing in Dale Masterson's den?”

“Exactly the question I asked myself. So I called some botanists I've worked with. They'd never heard of pokeweed being found anywhere in Oregon.

“I asked them how the berries could have been transported to Masterson's den. One theory they came up with was that someone was near a pokeweed and stepped on some of the berries that were in mud. Each berry contains seeds, which are, by the way, poisonous to humans. If the seeds were lodged in the mud and the mud dried, trapping the seeds, they could be carried to Oregon. If the person who stepped on the seeds took off his boots right away and didn't wear them again until they were back here, the seeds might fall out and grow here.

“Another way the berries could have gotten here is if they were brought to a nursery in the state, but I've checked and none of the nurseries I called had pokeweed or could think of why anyone would want it.”

“So we don't know where the berries came from?”

“Actually, I do. One of the last people I spoke to was Nellie Norwood. She's with the Forest Park Conservancy and she got very excited when I told her why I was calling. Three years ago, two hikers with an interest in plants were in a remote part of Forest Park and found a plant they couldn't identify, so they brought it to Nellie. She looked up the plant, discovered that it was pokeweed. and was surprised to find it growing in the park.”

A queasy feeling started to grow in the pit of Amanda's stomach.

“Can you show me where the pokeweed grows?” she asked.

“I can,” Baylor said as he unfolded a map of Forest Park. “I guessed you might ask so I had Nellie show me where she found the plant.” He put his finger down on a red X he'd drawn on a section of the map. “The only place in Oregon you can find pokeweed is right here.”