Black Mark, page 4
“Getting dark here. Flores, give me your flashlight.”
He held out a hand, without looking, and one of the uniform cops pulled a flashlight from his belt and handed it over. Buchanan shone it into the hole, illuminating Betts’s lifeless hand.
“Everything you see is as we found it,” I said. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m helping Mr. Russell build a fence. I was digging a hole for one of the posts when I found this. I called you as soon as we realized what it was.”
“Kind of dark to be building a fence, isn’t it?” Buchanan said.
“You know me, Detective. I’m a hard worker.”
Buchanan straightened up and shone the flashlight up and down the alley behind Elliott’s place. “Okay, Flores, let’s get this area sealed off and let the forensic guys go to work. Mick, let’s go inside and you can give us a full statement.”
“I’ll make a statement,” I said, “but we can do it out here. You’re not going inside Mr. Russell’s house without a warrant.”
“Jesus, Mick, you’re not a lawyer anymore. Did they take your brains when they pulled your ticket?” Buchanan gestured at the hole. “Unless this guy buried himself, this whole area is a murder scene.”
“It’s well established that it takes more than a homicide to create an exception to the Fourth Amendment warrant requirement. Without exigent circumstances you’ve got no right to search, Detective,” I said. “So we’re doing this outside.”
“Either of you guys could be the killer. Which means we need to search the house for evidence before you have a chance to get rid of it.”
Elliott shot me a glance, which I ignored. “Seriously?” I said. “You have no probable cause to suspect either of us, which means any search will be unconstitutional. What’s the over/under on how long it will take Casey to get any evidence you find tossed out of court? Five minutes?”
“Not my problem,” Buchanan said. He turned to Flores and the other uniformed officer. “Go search the house, guys.”
“The guy who lives here started all that BLM protest bullshit downtown,” Malone called out to the departing officers. “Don’t be afraid to make a mess.”
Flores grinned back at him. “Yes, sir!”
Elliott looked at me again. I made a ‘calm down’ gesture with a hand behind my back. “Have it your way, Detective. I’ve told you everything you need to know. Mr. Russell and I will wait on the deck until you’re finished.”
There was a new outdoor table and chairs on Elliott’s back deck. I’d helped him pick it up from Home Depot last weekend. We sat down. He leaned forward and whispered to me urgently.
“What do we do now? They’re going to find those blueprints!”
“Not a big deal,” I whispered back. “They don’t prove anything and I meant what I said about Casey getting evidence tossed. Buchanan is making a mistake searching your place and I think he knows it. Relax. We just need to wait this out.”
The forensic team, now fully kitted out in overalls and blue footwear covers, approached and surrounded the area with crime scene tape. One of them took several photos of the hole, the camera flash illuminating Elliott’s yard like a strobe light. Once the photos were done, two other members of the team knelt down and carefully removed dirt, pausing occasionally for the photographer to take more snaps.
A while later Flores came out of Elliott’s house.
“What have you got?” Buchanan said.
“Not much, sir,” Flores replied. “There’s a laptop computer and some papers with plans for the fence, but that’s about it. No weapon, no contraband.”
“No weapon?” Malone said. “You sure?”
“Yes, sir. We looked everywhere.”
Malone was about to say something else when one of the forensic team approached.
“Detectives, I think you need to see this,” he said.
He led Buchanan and Malone over to the body. I got up and followed them, gesturing for Elliott to stay put.
Enough dirt had been moved to expose Betts’s head and the technician shone his flashlight on the gunshot wound between his eyes.
“We’ll need to wait for the autopsy for confirmation,” he said, “but it looks like the cause of death is obvious. Gunshot wound to the head, at close range—significant presence of residue around the wound indicates that the shot was fired from no more than a foot away. From the size of the wound, I suspect we’re looking at 9mm ammunition. No rope marks on his arms or signs of other restraints. Also, no skin under the fingernails, or visible contusions, so it looks like he didn’t struggle.”
The technician moved his light to the back of Betts’s head, illuminating a gaping hole surrounded by black dried blood.
“Exit wound is consistent with standard ammunition, rather than hollow point. There’s very little blood in the soil we removed and we are yet to find any sign of brain, skull, or hair matter either, which indicates that the killing took place elsewhere and the body was transported here for burial.” He waved a hand at the hole. “We still need to exhume the body, and we may find more as we do so, but I wanted you to see this.”
“Thanks, Cartwright,” Buchanan said. He turned to me. “You recognize this guy?”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“Mr. Russell,” Buchanan called, “can you come over here, please?”
“Stay there, Elliott,” I said, quickly. I looked at Buchanan. “I told you, he’s not saying a word to you guys until after he’s spoken to his lawyer.”
“Have it your way.” Buchanan gestured at Betts’s body. “You know, we’ve seen a few gang killings like this in the last year or so. Shot in the face so the victim can see it coming. Mr. Russell used to be a gang member, didn’t he? You sure he’s not still active?”
“Do you honestly think I’d tell you if he was?”
“Yeah, you’re right. I should stop wasting my breath.” Buchanan turned away, then stopped and pointed at Elliott. “Oh, and Mick? You know he can’t stay here tonight, right? We have to seal the crime scene.”
I nodded, kicking myself for not thinking of this before. Regardless of whether Elliott was a suspect, the police had the right to keep him out of the crime scene to prevent accidental destruction of evidence.
“Okay, I’ll tell him. He can go inside and grab some stuff now you’re done searching, right?”
“Yeah, but I want an officer to accompany him.”
I nodded again and went over to break the bad news to Elliott.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” he said when I told him.
“You can stay at my place.”
He laughed. “No thanks. I’ve seen your couch. I’ll call Billy. He’s got a spare room.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go get some stuff.”
I signaled to Buchanan and he had Officer Flores escort us into the house. Inside, the kitchen looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Drawers and cupboards were open, their contents scattered over every flat surface. The living room was worse, with the sofa and chairs overturned and their cushions piled in a corner. I’d seen cops pull this kind of petty bullshit more times than I could count, and it still fried me every time. From the thunderous look on Elliott’s face, he was even more pissed than me.
Flores caught Elliott’s angry expression and smiled at him. “Looks kinda like downtown, huh?”
Elliott ignored him and went to the bedroom. Flores followed, so I hung back and waited in the kitchen. Elliott emerged a minute later, with an overnight bag.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Buchanan was waiting for us on the deck. “Mr. Russell, you’re free to go. We will want to speak to you after you’ve had the chance to confer with your attorney, so don’t go too far.”
“You know better than that,” I snapped, still steamed about the mess the cops had made of Elliott’s place. “Mr. Russell won’t be saying a word to you, especially once Casey has reinforced that message. And he can go where he damn well pleases. Come on, Elliott.”
We walked around to the front, where our cars were parked. Elliott threw his overnight bag in the back seat, then closed the door and leaned against his vehicle.
“Fucking assholes,” he said. “You see what I mean, about the shit they pull?”
“Yeah.”
Elliott paused and took a deep breath. “I’m still lost here, Mick. What happens now?”
I thought about finding the body, getting rid of the gun, and dealing with the cops. I was exhausted and I couldn’t imagine how Elliott felt. When we started this morning, his biggest problem was how the press would respond to his clash with Chief Walker at the awards dinner. Now he had to wrap his head around someone framing him for murder.
“Go to Billy’s place,” I said. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll talk to Casey tomorrow and make a plan from there.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” he said. “Thanks, Mick. For everything you did today. I’d have been screwed without you.”
He grabbed me in a bear hug before I could respond, then got in his car and drove away. I watched his taillights receding, trying desperately to shake the feeling that things were about to get a whole lot worse.
SEVEN
MAN OVERBOARD
I woke to the shrill chirp of my phone ringing. It took a few seconds for the fog in my head to clear. I looked at the bedside clock. 7:17am. Shit. I’d planned on sleeping at least a couple more hours.
I grabbed my phone, looked at the caller ID, and groaned. This was all I needed. For a moment I considered not answering, but I knew she’d just keep calling back until I did. Better to get it over with.
“Yeah?” I grunted.
“Where’s my alimony, Mick?”
“Good morning, Sarah.”
“Don’t be a smartass. The check’s late. Again.”
“You call me this early, on a Sunday, to give me grief about money you don’t even need?”
“Don’t put this on me. You were supposed to pay me a week ago.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re living with a guy who just made partner at Miller Nash. You should be paying me alimony. Why don’t you just marry him? Then you could stop bleeding me dry.”
“Maybe if you stopped drinking away what little money you make, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I didn’t answer.
“Just send the check, will you?” Sarah said, eventually. “I can hold off cashing it for a few days if you need me to.”
I hung up before she could and dropped the phone on the bedside table. My head was pounding. After I left Elliott’s place last night, I’d gone to Holman’s, my local bar, to wash away the day’s chaos with a couple of stiff drinks. That led to an ill-advised pilgrimage to my son’s grave, which in turn led to a few nightcaps in front of late-night TV, so it was never going to be an easy morning. Sarah bitching only made things worse.
I closed my eyes and laid back down, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Elliott—who might hate him so much they’d kill someone and dump the body in his yard. No matter which way I tried to spin it, I drew a blank. Eventually, I gave up and dragged myself out of bed. I found a clean pair of boxers and a T-shirt amongst the mess on my floor, then wandered over to the kitchen and made toast and coffee.
I drank the first cup standing by the pot, then poured a second and used it to wash down a couple of aspirin. I took the toast and coffee over to the couch and sat down.
Christ, what a great start to Sunday. It annoyed the hell out of me that they didn’t just get married. But then, I sent him a thank you card every year on the anniversary of Sarah leaving me for him, so he had a reason to be pissed at me.
I was going to keep sending them, though.
I had time to kill before our meeting with Casey, and I sure as hell didn’t want to sit around moping about Sarah, so I put on my workout gear and went for a run. The day was already warming up and I was soaked in sweat after a few blocks. I cut through Laurelhurst Park to Stark Street, then headed east along Stark for a while, past the nursery and the rows of Craftsman bungalows. I turned right at 60th and took a lap around the base of the dormant volcano that was the centerpiece of Mount Tabor Park. When I’d completed it, I stopped and gazed up at the peak. Back when I was a teenager, my father and I used to run to the top to train for cross-country events. I was a decent athlete in those days, and he ran Masters events well into his sixties. Now he was gone, and I’d be lucky to make it halfway up that hill. But still, it felt good to sweat out some toxins. I stretched out, then slowly jogged home.
After a quick shower, I drove downtown and parked in the underground lot at Pioneer Square, then emerged onto the sidewalk by the Apple Store. The windows were still boarded up and the boards were covered in anti-police graffiti. Protesters had smashed windows and looted stores along much of downtown Portland’s retail corridor when the Black Lives Matter demonstrations had turned violent. The protests still happened each night, and although they were more subdued and largely nonviolent, Apple and many other retailers had kept the boards in place rather than risk another round of shattered glass and stolen merchandise.
Casey’s office was in an ornate 1920s redbrick building, a couple of blocks south of Skidmore Fountain, at the north end of downtown. It had been converted into office space for small businesses and Casey’s practice was on the second floor, with a view of the river from the window. The office itself was big enough for a large wooden desk, a separate conference table with four chairs, and bookshelves on two walls. A small room off to one side held a photocopier and a supply cabinet. As with just about every other lawyer’s office I’d ever seen, all the flat surfaces were covered in piles of paperwork.
“Hey, Casey, good to see you again.”
“You too,” she said.
Casey wore a blue two-piece suit, her straight brown hair cut to shoulder length. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and athletic. She held out her hand and I shook it. She had a solid grip, but not so firm you’d think she was trying to prove anything.
Casey moved a couple of stacks of paper off the conference table and gestured towards it. “Have a seat.”
I sat down and Casey joined me.
“How’s life in private practice?” I said.
“It’s okay. The money’s better, but I liked my clients more when I was a public defender. Most of my cases these days are white-collar crimes. Rich defendants are a whole new breed of assholes. A murder case is a refreshing change.” Casey took a deep breath. “Anyway, what have you been up to?”
“Not much. I lost my job when United Streetcar went under a year or so ago. I’ve been doing some odd jobs here and there. Mostly small construction jobs, some night security gigs at Dante’s or Revolution Hall. Building a fence for Elliott, until yesterday.”
“Speaking of Elliott, you know you should talk to a lawyer too, right? If he gets convicted, and the cops find out about you and the gun, the first thing they’re going to do is charge you with aiding and abetting.”
“Yeah, I know. First sign of trouble, that gun’s going in the river.”
“If you were my client, I’d advise you to ditch it right now.”
Casey had a point. Under Oregon law, the penalty for aiding and abetting is the same as for the underlying crime. So, I could be facing the same sentence as a murderer. I’d have to keep a close eye on how things played out.
“I’ll think about it. If things go bad, I could always hit up your old friends at the Public Defender’s office.”
“You could do much worse.”
“True that.”
Casey looked at me thoughtfully. “What happened to you, Mick?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she said. “You were a damn good defense lawyer. And the crazy cases you took—man, even I wouldn’t go near some of your clients. You were the patron saint of lost causes. And then one day you blew it all up. Why?”
“Simple. The justice system is a swamp full of shit and I got sick of swimming in it.”
Casey threw her hands up. “Oh, come on, that’s bullshit and you know it. If you weren’t happy, you could have just quit your job like a normal person. Instead, you slugged a prosecutor in front of a judge. There has to be more to the story.”
There was a lot more to the story, but I didn’t want to tell it. Fortunately for me, Elliott chose that moment to walk in.
We both stood up and Casey stepped forward to greet Elliott.
“Welcome, Mr. Russell,” she said as she shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Good to meet you too,” Elliott replied, “though I wish it was under different circumstances. Thank you for seeing me on a Sunday.”
“Of course, no problem. Please sit down.”
Elliott sat down and nodded to me. “Mick.”
“Good to see you, buddy,” I said. “You get any sleep?”
“Not much.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Casey grabbed a legal pad and a pen. “Right, Mr. Russell. Let’s start by having you walk me through what happened yesterday. I know the basics from the phone conversation with Mick, but I want to hear it from you.”
Elliott talked Casey through the day’s events, starting from when we first found the body. He spoke in short, sharp sentences, scowling and stabbing the air with fierce hand gestures to illustrate key points. A long night of brooding had stoked the fires of anger at whoever had done this to him. I could almost feel his rage from across the table.
When he got to the part about the cops searching the house, Casey held up a hand to stop him, then frowned at me.
“You let them search the house?” she said.
“I couldn’t stop them,” I replied. “I told Buchanan he didn’t have exigent circumstances, but he went ahead anyway. Besides, I figured it could come in handy. This way, you’ve got a chance of tossing anything they find, on Fourth Amendment grounds.”
“Speaking of which, what did they find?”
“Plans for the yard work and Elliott’s laptop. The plans aren’t great for us. They show a concrete driveway going in where Betts was buried. You know they’ll spin that as a plan to hide the body.”
