“Yes.”
“Isn’t it also true that Mr. Wright told you that he was at the warehouse doing a drug deal with Mr. Poe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you or your officers conduct a search of the warehouse in which Mr. Poe was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find any heroin?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t the reasonable assumption be that Mr. Wright took the heroin when he fled?”
“I guess,” Anders said reluctantly.
“Now, as far as you know, only Mr. Wright, Mr. Poe, and Officer Prater were in the warehouse when Mr. Poe was killed.”
“Yes.”
“That means that most probably either Mr. Wright or Officer Prater killed Mr. Poe.”
“Yes.”
“Detective, is it correct to say that Jackson Wright is your star witness?”
“Yes.”
“Officer Prater is a decorated Portland police officer, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“And Officer Prater told you he was knocked unconscious when he went inside the warehouse and that he woke up after Mr. Poe was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“When he was found at the scene, did Officer Prater have a head wound?”
“Yes.”
“If I told you that a doctor who examined that wound on the evening that Officer Prater was struck on the head concluded that it was reasonable to assume that a person sustaining such a wound would be rendered unconscious and that it was most probably not self-inflicted, would you be able to produce any testimony that would call that determination into question?”
“Not at this time.”
“Mr. Wright has arrests and convictions for possession and sale of heroin, does he not?”
“Yes.”
“If I told you that we have spoken to officers in Portland Vice and Narcotics who have told us that Mr. Wright worked for Mr. Poe while he was alive and has taken over Mr. Poe’s business now that he is dead, would you disagree with them?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“If it’s true, wouldn’t Mr. Wright have had a strong motive to kill Mr. Poe and frame Officer Prater for the murder?”
Anders hesitated and looked at the DA.
“This is not a difficult question, Detective Anders. In criminal enterprises, isn’t one way an underling can take over from his boss is by killing him?”
“I don’t know if that’s common.”
“Mr. Wright has been convicted of assault, has he not?’
“Yes.”
“So he’s no stranger to violence?”
“One conviction for assault doesn’t make him a killer.”
“But the money he would make by taking over his boss’s business might.”
Regina looked at the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Robin grabbed Regina’s sleeve. “You didn’t ask about the gun,” Robin whispered.
Regina gave her a blank look. Robin turned the page with Regina’s cross-examination questions and pointed to writing on the second page. They had gone over these questions less than twenty-four hours ago.
“There were no prints on the gun, remember. A smart cop wouldn’t have wiped off the prints, then left the gun behind,” Robin whispered.
Regina read her prepared cross about the prints on the gun and flashed a quick smile.
“Yes, of course. Thanks for reminding me.”
Regina turned to the judge. “I do have one or two more questions for the detective, if I may.”
“Go ahead,” the judge said.
“Detective, you testified that Officer Prater’s gun is the murder weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Were his prints found on the gun?”
“No.”
“In fact, no prints were found on the gun, were they?”
“No.”
“Do you want the Court to believe that a veteran police officer with knowledge of the way a murder case is investigated would kill a man in cold blood with his own gun, wipe his prints from the gun, then be stupid enough to leave the weapon—which could be connected to him easily—next to the body of the man he murdered?”
“I don’t know what may have motivated the defendant. He may have panicked after shooting Mr. Poe.”
“Let me see if I understand you. Officer Prater follows Mr. Poe and Mr. Wright inside the warehouse and murders Mr. Poe in cold blood. Then he calmly wipes his prints off the gun. Then he panics and drops the murder weapon by the body. Then he stops panicking and proceeds to fake a head injury by beating his head against something until his wound hopefully is sufficient to fool a doctor. Is that what you want the Court to believe?”
“I don’t know what was in the defendant’s mind when he murdered Miles Poe,” Anders replied, but it was obvious that the detective was unable to respond intelligently to Regina’s question.
* * *
Regina’s witnesses were the physician who treated Prater for his head wound; a dean at the medical school, who testified that Regina’s client had suffered from a significant blow to the head that could have been self-inflicted but probably was not; and a detective from Vice and Narcotics, who testified that Jackson Wright had taken over Miles Poe’s business. When all the evidence was in, Judge Stein ruled.
“I am compelled to set bail in a murder case if, after hearing a proffer of the State’s evidence, I cannot conclude that the State’s proof of guilt is evident or the presumption is strong that the defendant is guilty. In this case, the evidence indicates that two people were inside the warehouse when Mr. Poe was murdered. Allegedly, Jackson Wright and Mordessa Carpenter would produce evidence that could lead the jury to conclude that Officer Prater wanted revenge on Mr. Poe because Mr. Poe interrupted him when he was beating Miss Carpenter, and there is the lawsuit Mr. Poe filed, which supports the State’s position that Officer Prater was harassing Mr. Poe. But Miss Carpenter has apparently fled and Mr. Wright, the alleged eyewitness, also had a strong motive to murder Mr. Poe, since he is now running Mr. Poe’s prostitution and narcotics businesses.
“I am also troubled by the evidence that the officer was hit on the head hard enough to knock him unconscious and the fact that no prints were found on the murder weapon, yet it was left at the crime scene.
“Now, much can change between now and a trial, but I don’t feel the State has met its burden today. I am also concerned about the danger a police officer can face when he is in jail. So I am going to grant bail for Officer Prater.”
“Yes,” Prater said after expelling the breath he’d been holding.
The judge spent several more minutes discussing the terms of the release before adjourning court. As soon as the judge was off the bench, Anders and Bergland left the courtroom. Robin could tell they were upset.
Prater turned to Regina. “How soon can I get out?”
“It will take a few hours, but you should be released sometime today.”
“They say you’re the best, and you sure lived up to your reputation.”
“Thank you,” Regina said.
Robin walked through the bar of the court just as the guards came up to lead Prater away. Prater nodded to her. Robin realized that it was the first time he’d paid her any attention.
“What did you think?” Regina asked Robin.
“If I were prosecuting, I’d take a very hard look at my case,” she replied.
“Nice work, boss,” Jeff said.
“Thank you.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” the investigator asked.
“Go ahead.”
“I talked to some of the courthouse guards. The protesters just learned that the judge granted bail, and the scene outside is getting ugly. I think we should go out the back entrance and avoid the crowds.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll get a couple of guards to accompany us in case somebody figures out what we’re doing.”
“Okay. Let me tal
k to the reporters. Then we can head for the back stairs.”
Regina packed her attaché case and Robin followed her and Jeff up the aisle and into the corridor outside the courtroom, where she fielded questions from the reporters. Robin admired the way Regina managed to emphasize the weakness in the State’s case every time she answered a question, knowing her answers would be on TV and radio and in the newspaper, where potential jurors would hear and read them. And she was impressed by Regina’s devastating cross-examination of Carrie Anders, but one thing nagged at her. Why had Regina forgotten to grill Anders about the lack of prints on the gun?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A strange idea had wormed its way into Robin’s brain during the bail hearing. After leaving the courthouse, she picked up a triple-shot latte. When she was in her office, Robin sipped her drink as she reread the police report of Mordessa Carpenter’s interview, the interview with Meredith Fenner, and the autopsy reports of the dead prostitutes. Then she looked at the photographs of the battered faces of Meredith Fenner and the prostitutes. When she was done, Robin put her feet up on her desk and stared into space. Five minutes later, she dropped her feet to the floor, leaned forward, and shuffled frantically through the police reports concerning Carol Richardson, one of Alex Mason’s ex-wives. When she finished scanning the report, she whispered, “Yes,” and felt the thrill she’d experienced when she’d knocked out an opponent in the Octagon. Then she grabbed several police reports and sped down the hall to Jeff’s office.
Jeff was working on his computer when she rapped on his door.
“Do you have a moment?” Robin asked.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about the Mason case.”
“And?”
“Alex Mason’s and Allison Mason’s stories are so at odds with each other that one of them has to be lying.”
“That’s obvious.”
“If Alex Mason is telling the truth, there’s a strong possibility that Allison Mason set him up.”
“I’ve thought about that, too, but the setup would have involved long-term planning and great complexity.”
“I think Allison is pretty smart,” Robin said. “I met her at a cocktail party at the Hilton after I spoke at a CLE. I was arguing with Alex Mason about whether death by lethal injection was cruel and unusual punishment. The U. S. Supreme Court had ruled that Oklahoma could use a specific drug when they executed an inmate. Mason was trying to remember the name of the drug, but he couldn’t. Allison chimed right in with midazolam. A dummy wouldn’t know that.
“Also, Mordessa Carpenter saw a woman at the wheel of a dark foreign car that Tonya Benson got into on the night she disappeared. The Masons own a black BMW. If Allison is framing her husband, she could have been driving the car while Alex was tied up in their house.”
“Where is this going?” Jeff asked.
“Meredith Fenner says that she was kidnapped and tortured by a man. If Allison is involved, the only way to reconcile the evidence is if she had a male accomplice. The possibility that Allison was working with a man got me thinking.”
Robin put the autopsy pictures of Tonya Benson, Patricia Rawls, and the photos taken of Meredith Fenner’s face on Jeff’s desk. Then she handed Jeff the report of the interview with Mordessa Carpenter.
“In bulky clothes, Arnold Prater and Alex Mason would have similar builds, and both men have New York accents. And look at the similarities in the way Meredith Fenner and Mordessa Carpenter were tortured. They were bound to a bed, beaten around the face, and burned with a cigarette.”
“Are you suggesting that Arnold Prater and Allison Mason are in cahoots?” Jeff asked.
“It would explain how Prater would know about the Masons’ cabin and when no one was using it so he could take his prisoners there.”
“I see a few problems with your theory. There are similarities in the way Fenner and Carpenter were tortured, but the person who killed Rawls and Benson and kidnapped Fenner used duct tape, not handcuffs like Prater used on Carpenter, and burning people with cigarettes as a method of torture is not unique.”
“Prater wouldn’t use his handcuffs. That would suggest that a policeman was involved.”
“The killer didn’t think Fenner would escape. And you can buy handcuffs a lot of places. And there’s something else you’re missing. Allison wouldn’t ask a police officer to join in a plan that involved serial murder unless she was absolutely certain that Prater wouldn’t arrest her. Why would she even think of approaching him with her plan?”
Robin frowned. Jeff had made some pretty good points.
“I can see another problem with your theory,” Jeff said. “Allison and Arnold don’t exactly run in the same circles. Mason is a member of a country club and lives in a mansion in the West Hills. If Prater and Allison were conspiring to frame Alex, how did they meet?”
Robin couldn’t help grinning as she slapped a police report on Jeff’s desk.
“Read that. As soon as I thought about the possibility that Prater was working with Allison Mason, I went through all the reports in the Mason and Prater cases again and I came across a report of Carrie Anders’s interview with Carol Richardson, Alex Mason’s ex-wife. Carol said she called the police when Alex hit her. I found the report of the incident. It was written up by Officer Arnold Prater. Prater responded to the call! That’s when he met Alex Mason.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Jeff said when he finished reading the report.
“Prater kidnaps women and tortures them,” Robin said, “but Meredith Fenner escapes and he gets scared, so he beats up Poe’s women to relieve his urges.”
Jeff thought for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“Your theory is that Prater and Allison are working together to frame Alex Mason, but Alex didn’t meet Allison in New York until over a year after he met Prater.”
“Maybe Alex and Prater bonded.”
Jeff laughed. “Are you suggesting a bromance?”
Robin blushed. “It’s not so far-fetched,” she replied defensively.
Jeff held his hands up to form a frame. “I can picture it. They go bowling together and watch football at sports bars. Then Alex remarries and introduces the little woman to his best pal.”
Robin’s enthusiasm waned. “Laugh if you want to. But think about it. Allison was in New York four years ago and Prater moved here from New York four years ago.”
“New York is a pretty big place, Robin.”
Robin looked frustrated. “We know almost nothing about Allison’s past. What if she did know Prater in New York?”
“Your theory is based on a lot of pretty unbelievable what ifs.”
Jeff had burst Robin’s bubble and she started to deflate.
“Hey, buck up. I’m not saying your theory is completely wrong. If Allison is framing her husband, she had to have had a male accomplice. Arnold Prater just might not be that person.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Maybe the man she met on the nights she disappeared.”
“A lover?”
“It would have to be. Who else could she convince to become an accomplice in these horrible crimes?”
Robin frowned. “That makes sense. Do you think she’d risk seeing him now that Alex has been arrested?”
“Probably not, but maybe I should start following her in case she screws up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gabriella Winter practiced law across the freeway in a Victorian home that had been converted into offices. A psychologist and an Internet consultant occupied the first floor and Winter and an accountant shared the second floor. A nonprofit had an office above Winter’s suite.
Robin had scheduled her appointment for lunchtime so she would have an excuse for disappearing for an hour. As soon as she hung up, she felt like a traitor and thought about canceling the appointment, but the stakes were too high. At eleven-thirty, Robin mustered her courage, fought the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach,
and walked across town to meet the top Oregon practitioner of elder law.
Winter walked into her waiting room moments after Robin was announced. Robin had imagined a severe older woman in a gray business suit, but the lawyer wore a colorful peasant dress, her short white hair was spiked, and she flashed a contagious smile as she extended her hand.
“Come on back,” Winter said as she led Robin down a short hall decorated with American Indian art.
“Utah and Arizona,” Winter said when she caught Robin looking at the photographs of the Southwest that brightened her walls. “That’s where I was raised.”
“It’s beautiful country,” Robin said. “I did some hiking in Brice, Zion, and some of the other parks when I was in college. Why did you leave?”
“It’s an age-old story. I followed my man when we graduated from college, then stayed after the divorce. I paid my way through law school by working as a nurse in several assisted-living facilities. That’s where I developed my passion for helping the elderly. But enough about me. How can I help you, Robin?”
Robin felt very uneasy about what she was about to say. Even though she knew Winter was forbidden to reveal her confidences, she had decided to disguise her boss’s identity and the incidents that bothered her.
“I have a friend and I’m worried about him.”
“What’s worrying you?” Winter asked when Robin hesitated.
“He’s not that old. I mean, he’s in his late fifties, and he’s extremely smart—way above average—but he’s forgetting things and acting odd.”
“In what way?”
“I’ll tell him something and he won’t remember I told him a few minutes later. Recently we discussed a magazine article at great length. Then another friend brought up the article a week later and my friend acted like he’d never heard of it. And he has trouble remembering simple number sequences like a four-number alarm code.”
“And you’re worried your friend is showing signs of the onset of dementia?” Winter said.
“Yes, exactly.”
“What do you know about dementia?”
“I did a little reading on the Internet, but, honestly, not a lot.”
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