The Third Victim

by Phillip Margolin

  “Find anything?” Prater asked.

  “Yeah. Do you have your weapon?”

  “No. One of those pricks must have stolen it after they knocked me out.”

  The cop held up his phone and showed Prater a picture.

  “Is this your gun?” he asked.

  Prater stared at the photo but didn’t answer the question. He could see his weapon lying on the concrete floor between two rows of high metal shelves, but that wasn’t why he was speechless. Also in the picture, lying next to his gun with an entry wound in the back of his skull, was Miles Poe.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jeff Hodges limped into his boss’s office and found Regina and Robin sitting on the couch, surrounded by a stack of police reports.

  “You rang?” he said.

  Regina looked up, then motioned to some items on the edge of her desk.

  “Alex Mason’s bail hearing is this afternoon. That’s the key to Alex’s house. The letter is written permission to go inside and take any items that might assist in his defense. There’s another piece of paper with his alarm code. Go over there and pick out a suit, dress shirt, and tie for Alex to wear at the bail hearing. Then poke around for anything else you think we can use.”

  “Haven’t the police gone through the house?”

  “They seized items like the duct tape and cigarettes Allison says they used in their S and M games. I’m interested in anything that will give me a handle on Allison Mason. I asked Alex about her life before they met. He was surprised when he realized that he didn’t know much about her. She told him about running away from home but not where that home was. He knew she moved to New York from Florida, but she was always vague about what she did there and where she lived before Florida.”

  “Didn’t he ask her about that?”

  “Yes, but she dodged questions about her past. She’d tell him it was too painful to talk about. So see what you can find. Maybe she has a diary or letters. Look at her emails. Alex gave me the password. It’s on the paper with the alarm code.”

  “What if Allison’s home? She’s not going to let me rummage around.”

  “The bail hearing is at one. I asked Allison to meet with me before the hearing. She should be leaving soon.”

  * * *

  The Masons’ house was located off of an isolated stretch of road in Portland’s West Hills. That made it difficult for Jeff Hodges to be inconspicuous while he waited for Allison to leave. After driving back and forth along the narrow two-lane road that bordered the Masons’ long driveway, he finally parked on the shoulder of the road, as far away from the driveway as he could while still having a view of it.

  An hour later, Allison drove out of the driveway, headed toward downtown Portland. Jeff waited twenty minutes before entering the estate. He rang the doorbell a few times to make certain that no one was home. Then he used Mason’s key to get inside and punched in the alarm code.

  Jeff looked around the downstairs before going up to the couple’s bedroom. He selected a suit, tie, and shirt from Mason’s closet and put them in a carrying bag. He laid the bag on the bed and went into the master bathroom. Alex had told Regina that he and Allison had their own sinks, and it took no time at all to identify which sink belonged to Allison. Hodges pulled an evidence bag from his coat pocket and plucked several long red hairs from the hairbrush that sat on the marble counter next to Allison’s sink to use for DNA testing. When he spotted a glass that he hoped would have Allison’s fingerprints, he ran downstairs and found an identical glass in a kitchen cupboard. Then he returned to the bathroom and substituted the glass he’d just secured for the glass he placed in a second evidence bag.

  When Hodges was through in the bathroom, he reentered the bedroom and searched the drawer in the end table on Allison’s side of their king-size bed. Nothing in the drawer was helpful.

  There was a home office on the ground floor. Jeff booted up the computer and entered Allison’s password, but he didn’t find anything interesting. As soon as he turned off the computer, Jeff checked his watch. He’d been in the house for an hour. He was tempted to look around some more, but time was growing short, so he left for the jail to deliver Alex’s clothes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Honorable Martha Herrera, an elderly jurist who was close to retirement, had been assigned Alex Mason’s case. She was slender, with wrinkled brown skin, soft white hair, and a perpetual smile. Herrera refused to wear contacts, and her sharp brown eyes peered at litigants through thick tortoiseshell glasses.

  The judge had been in private practice in an insurance defense firm twenty years ago when the governor had tapped her for the Multnomah County Circuit Court. She’d had a few opportunities to fill vacancies on the Oregon Court of Appeals, but she enjoyed trial work and had rejected all of them. Regina felt that Mason was lucky to have Herrera hear his case. She was fair and bright and had the type of judicial temperament attorneys loved.

  In all cases except murder, a defendant had a right to bail, but a judge had to deny bail in a murder case when the proof of guilt was evident or the presumption was strong that the defendant was guilty. At trial, the state had to produce witnesses to make its case and the defense had a right to cross-examine them. At a bail hearing, the state was permitted to have the lead detective summarize the state’s evidence for the judge.

  Alex Mason’s bail hearing was the disaster Regina had expected it would be. Kyle Bergland had Carrie Anders give a summary of Meredith Fenner’s testimony and a summary of the evidence that would establish that the three victims were held at the Masons’ cabin and that Alex’s DNA was found on the duct tape that was used to bind Meredith Fenner. Carrie also told the judge that Allison would testify about Alex’s sexual preferences, which included using duct tape to bind her and cigarettes to burn her. Allison was sitting in the spectator section, but she would not make eye contact when Alex turned toward her.

  Regina presented prominent members of the Oregon Bar, Mason’s pastor, and several other character witnesses, but she couldn’t counter the state’s evidence of guilt. Herrera ruled that the state had met the criteria for a denial of bail.

  As soon as the judge issued her finding, Mason’s shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest. When the judge left the bench, the guards came over to cuff Mason.

  “I’ll meet you at the jail in a few minutes,” Regina told him.

  Mason nodded and the guards led him away.

  “Can you take my file back to the office?” Regina asked Robin.

  “Sure. Are you going to appeal the bail decision?” Robin asked.

  “You’re the appellate whiz. Do you see any chance of getting Herrera reversed?”

  Robin thought for a moment, then shook her head. “It would be a waste of time.”

  “I agree. See you in the office.”

  As she walked toward the door to the corridor, Regina tried to formulate her answers to the questions the reporters were going to ask.

  “Miss Barrister?”

  Regina looked around and saw a handsome young man in a business suit standing behind her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of wavy brown hair and soft brown eyes.

  “My name is Jacob Heller. I’m representing Allison Mason in her divorce.” He held out a legal document. “Please give this to Mr. Mason.”

  One look at the papers let Regina know that Alex Mason’s awful day had gotten worse.

  * * *

  Alex Mason was back in his orange jumpsuit by the time he was escorted into the contact visiting room. He looked furious, and Regina regretted that she was the bearer of more bad news.

  “This is total bullshit,” Mason raved. “I’m being set up. Why can’t Herrera see that?”

  “This was just the bail hearing. At trial, I’ll get to cross-examine and a lot can change.”

  “It’s that bitch Allison. She couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

  “I’m working on ways to discredit your wife’s testimony.”


  “You’d better, considering what I’m paying you.”

  Regina sighed. There was no use putting off what she had to tell Mason. “I’m afraid I have more bad news for you,” she said as she handed Mason the document she’d been given in the courtroom. “Allison has filed for divorce.”

  Mason’s face grew red. “The bitch! This was her plan all along. First she frames me for murder and then she guts me financially.”

  “I’m going to start a full-scale investigation into Allison’s background. If she planned this, she may have done something similar before.”

  “If she planned this, she’s a lot smarter than we thought and she’s probably covered her trail.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Carrie Anders slowed down to maneuver past the pickets outside the Justice Center. Most were African-American, with a scattering of young white faces, and they were demanding justice for black men and an end to police brutality. The detective’s jaw tightened when she read the placards that compared the Portland police to Nazis.

  The Reverend Carlos Jones was using a bullhorn to egg on the demonstrators. Jones was frequently involved with civil rights protests and he was willing to disregard the facts when he wanted to get people riled up. Carrie had seen him on the news, where he was telling a reporter that the black community was enraged because Miles Poe, a young black man, had been shot in the back by Arnold Prater, a white cop, shortly after Poe sued Prater for harassment. He had failed to mention that Poe was a drug-dealing pimp and not some young scholar bound for Princeton, but he did tell the reporter that the feud between the two men had started when Poe stopped Prater from beating a black woman. Carrie wondered where he’d gotten that information and the information about the lawsuit. That mystery was solved when she got a phone call from Jackson Wright’s attorney.

  * * *

  Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon ushered Jackson Wright and his lawyer, Elliot Nesbitt, into a conference room, then sat across the table from them. Wright’s lawyer had sandy blond hair and blue eyes that were shielded by the lenses of wire-rimmed specs, which kept sliding down his nose. Carrie figured that the attorney was in his mid-twenties and probably only a year or so out of law school.

  Jackson Wright was dressed in pressed jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket and still resembled the muscular tight end he had been in high school before being expelled for assaulting a teacher. Several of her contacts in Vice had told Anders that Jackson provided muscle and sold dope for Miles Poe.

  There had been an APB out for Wright as soon as Arnold Prater identified him as the prime suspect in Miles Poe’s murder. Until this morning, all attempts to find Wright had failed. Then Nesbitt had phoned Carrie and told her that Wright wanted to tell what he knew to the police.

  “Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Wright,” Carrie said.

  Wright scowled. “Miles was my friend, and that fucker Prater…” He shook his head. “I want justice for Miles. No offense, but there have been too many good young black men murdered by the police.”

  Carrie restrained herself and addressed Wright civilly. “Just out of curiosity, Mr. Wright, were you the person who told Reverend Jones that Miles Poe was suing Officer Prater?”

  “Before Mr. Wright says anything, we need to reach an agreement,” Nesbitt said. “Jackson has come forward in good faith. He’s willing to tell you what happened inside the warehouse when Mr. Poe was shot and he will testify for the state before a grand jury and at a trial, but, as I mentioned on the phone, he wants assurances that he won’t become the scapegoat for police brutality.”

  “And what does Mr. Wright want for his cooperation?” Roger Dillon asked.

  “Immunity from prosecution for any and all crimes that may have been committed at the time that Miles Poe was murdered.”

  “And what might those crimes be?” Carrie asked.

  “There’s murder and assault, in which he was not involved, and there may have been narcotics in the area.”

  “We can’t give your client immunity for a crime of violence, but we can for crimes involving drugs,” Carrie said. “And we’re going to want a proffer before we give Mr. Wright a get-out-of-jail-free card,”

  “I figured you would,” Nesbitt said, “so here it is. If you give Mr. Wright immunity, he will tell you that Arnold Prater shot Miles Poe.”

  “And how does he know this?” Carrie asked.

  “Because he saw him do it,” Nesbitt said.

  “You know that Officer Prater says that your client most probably shot Mr. Poe?” Dillon said.

  “No, I didn’t. I have no idea what Officer Prater said. But I find it interesting that you said that Prater said my client ‘most probably shot’ Poe. Isn’t he sure?”

  Carrie suppressed a smile. Nesbitt was sharp.

  “Before I tell you what we know, why doesn’t Mr. Wright tell us what he knows,” Dillon said.

  Carrie showed Nesbitt and Wright a document she had prepared as soon as the meeting had been arranged.

  “This is our assurance that nothing said at this meeting will be used against Mr. Wright in any way and that we will not arrest him today.”

  Nesbitt took the notarized document and went over it with his client.

  “Okay,” Nesbitt said when they finished conferring. “Jackson, tell them what happened at the warehouse.”

  “I know you won’t believe me, because you got me pegged as a pimp and dealer, but you probably don’t know about the relationship between Miles and Prater. So I’m gonna fill you in on that before I tell you about the killing.”

  Wright leaned forward and made eye contact first with Dillon, then Carrie.

  “Arnold Prater is a bent cop. Miles used to pay him off so he wouldn’t hassle him about his business. Sometimes he paid him cash, but sometimes he let Prater fuck his girls for free. Now to understand what brought all this about, you got to know that Prater ain’t right in the head and he’s an animal with women.”

  “What do you mean?” Carrie asked.

  Wright looked directly at the detective. “He gets off on hurting them, and that’s how the trouble started. ’Bout a month or so ago, Prater told Miles he wanted to fuck—Well, I ain’t gonna name her ’til we have a deal, but it was one of Miles’s women. Anyway, Miles agreed, but he seen what Prater done to another one of his girls and he warned Prater not to beat them up no more ’cause they ain’t no use if they got their faces beat in. And after what happened to Tonya, he couldn’t afford to have another girl out of commission.”

  Alarm bells went off. “Tonya?” Carrie asked.

  “Yeah, the girl who got murdered by that lawyer.”

  “Are you saying that Tonya Benson worked for Miles Poe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did Officer Prater have any contact with her?”

  “I got no idea. Miles dealt with Prater, not me.”

  “What about Alex Mason? Did he have anything to do with any of Miles’s women?”

  Wright’s brow furrowed for a moment. Then he shook his head. “That name ain’t ringing no bells.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Carrie said. “Why don’t you continue telling us what happened after Mr. Poe told Officer Prater that he couldn’t beat up his women.”

  “He done it anyway. Miles hears this woman screaming and he busted into the motel room and pulled a gun on Prater to get him to stop.”

  “Did you see this?” Dillon asked.

  “No, but Miles told me what happened right after. He was really shook.”

  “Okay,” Dillon said. “Go on.”

  “By the time Miles got inside the room, Prater had already busted up the girl’s face. The problem was, Prater hadn’t gotten his rocks off yet and he was pissed. So he wanted revenge and he got it by hassling Miles with traffic tickets every time he saw him. And he got some of his police buddies to give him tickets. Then he had some of his other buddies go to Miles’s pool hall and arrest the girls for all kinds of shit they weren’t doing. Just gen
erally making a nuisance of hisself. So Miles hired Mr. Nesbitt and sued Prater for violating his civil rights. And that’s why Prater killed Miles.”

  Carrie sat back and studied Wright. “This is a lot to take in, Mr. Wright.”

  Wright jabbed his thumb at his lawyer. “Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

  Carrie looked at Nesbitt, who nodded. “Miles was killed shortly after I served Prater. We were suing for several million dollars and there was definitely a pattern of harassment.”

  Nesbitt took the complaint in Poe’s civil suit out of his attaché case and pushed it across the table. Dillon leaned over Carrie’s shoulder to read it.

  “So you’re saying Prater had a motive to kill Poe?” Dillon said when he was through.

  “A million reasons.”

  Carrie turned back to Wright. “And you’re saying that you saw him do it?”

  “I’m an eyewitness.”

  “Go ahead,” Dillon said.

  “Okay, so Miles and me do business occasionally. You know what I’m saying?”

  “You’re a drug dealer, just like the late Mr. Poe,” Dillon said.

  “Yeah, hypothetically. And, hypothetically, we might have been meeting at the warehouse where I work so I could give Miles some merchandise.”

  “Let’s forget about the drugs, Mr. Wright,” Carrie said. “We’re Homicide, not Narcotics and Vice. So how did the shooting start?”

  “Prater must have followed Miles to the warehouse because, all of a sudden, he popped up and he was pointing his gun at us. Me and Miles jumped inside the warehouse. Then we both took off down the aisles in the dark.

  “Seconds later, Prater came through the door. I knew I couldn’t make it to the other side of the warehouse, where there’s another door, so I ducked behind some shelves. They’re high. They go up almost to the ceiling and there are boxes and merchandise in them, so I knew Prater wouldn’t be able to see me if I stayed quiet. But Miles kept running. I could hear him. Prater must have, too, because he took off after Miles. I followed them. That’s when I heard the shot. Miles grunted and Prater said, ‘I got you, motherfucker.’