A Reasonable Doubt Read online

  Roger’s arrest record as a police officer had been among the best and his solve rate as a detective had been exceptional, but those successes didn’t stop the butterflies from flapping in Roger’s stomach as he approached the scene of his first murder case.

  A section of the parking lot had been cordoned off for official vehicles, and a uniformed officer showed Quinlan where to park. As Roger followed his partner up the steps and through the front door of the club, he nervously adjusted his tie and pulled down on his jacket.

  “Hey, Garrity,” Quinlan said to a young officer who was stationed in the club lobby. “Where’s the scene of the crime?”

  Garrity threw a thumb over his shoulder. Quinlan and Dillon walked by a policewoman who was taking down a statement from a distraught middle-aged man and down an oak-paneled hallway crowded with forensic experts. A door was open at the end of the hall. An officer handed the detectives Tyvek suits, booties, and surgical masks. Dillon put on all three, but Quinlan carried his mask in his hand. When the detectives walked through the anteroom, they saw Dr. Max Rothstein, the state medical examiner, bent over the body of a young woman. His face was partially concealed by a surgical mask.

  “What have you got for us, Doc?” Quinlan asked.

  “Put on your mask, Morris. I won’t know for certain until I get the toxicology report, but I smelled a bitter almond odor when I got close to the victim, so I’m putting my money on cyanide poisoning. You can develop clinically significant cyanide concentrations by inhaling cyanide gas from the body of a victim.”

  “Got it,” Quinlan said as he slipped on his mask.

  “Who’s the victim?” Dillon asked.

  “Sophie Randall.”

  “Is this her office?”

  “Her boss’s. She’s his secretary.”

  “How was she poisoned?” Quinlan asked.

  “See that box of candy on her desk?” Dr. Rothstein answered.

  The men looked. A lab tech was taking photographs of the box.

  “Two pieces are missing. Samuel Moser, Randall’s boss, received the candy as a gift from an unknown person. He’s on a diet so he gave the candy to Mrs. Randall. Moments after she ate the candy, she came into this office, went into convulsions, and died. I’m betting we’ll find cyanide in the candy.”

  “We passed a heavyset guy in a suit at the end of the hall. Is that Moser?”

  Rothstein nodded. “He saw Mrs. Randall die and he’s really upset, so go easy on him.”

  “Got it. We’ll get out of your hair. Let me know as soon as you have more on the cause of death.”

  The detectives discarded their Tyvek suits and walked back toward the lobby.

  “Hi, Gloria,” Quinlan said to the policewoman who was taking Moser’s statement. “We’d like to talk to Mr. Moser. Are you about done?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Moser, I’m Morris Quinlan and this is Roger Dillon. We’re with Homicide. Is there someplace quiet where we can talk, an office or conference room?”

  “There’s a conference room on the second floor.”

  “Okay. Lead the way.”

  Moser walked toward the stairs with Quinlan following and Dillon bringing up the rear. Dillon was about to climb the stairs when Quinlan swore so quietly that only Dillon heard him.

  A deputy district attorney was always assigned to a homicide as soon as possible to observe the crime scene. Dillon turned and saw a short man with styled blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thin mustache walking toward them. As soon as Dillon recognized Peter Ragland, he knew why his partner was upset.

  Ragland spotted Quinlan and waved.

  “What are you doing here, Pete?” Quinlan asked.

  “I’m a member of the Westmont, Morris. When the boss heard there was a homicide at the club, I was the natural pick to handle the case.”

  Moser turned when he heard Quinlan speak to Ragland.

  “Mr. Moser,” Quinlan said, “this is Deputy District Attorney Peter Ragland.”

  “No need for an introduction, is there, Sam?” Ragland said. “Fill me in. What have we got here?”

  “Mr. Moser’s secretary, Sophie Randall, was poisoned and we’re going upstairs to get some background.”

  “It looks like I got here just in time.”

  Ragland followed the trio, and a few minutes later, the four men were seated at one end of a long oak table.

  “How are you doing?” Quinlan asked Moser.

  “Not great.”

  “I noticed what looks like a liquor cabinet when we walked in. Any chance there’s a bottle of Scotch in there?”

  Moser flashed a sad smile. “Yes, but that’s not necessary. Ask your questions.”

  “Okay. So, what’s your position at the Westmont Country Club?”

  “I manage the Westmont.”

  “What’s that entail?”

  Quinlan didn’t care about Moser’s duties, but he hoped that leading him away from memories of the murder and into familiar territory would help Moser relax.

  “How long has Mrs. Randall been your secretary?” Quinlan asked when Moser had explained the duties of a club manager and the detective thought he was ready to answer relevant questions.

  “Seven years.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  Moser started to talk, but he choked up. Quinlan didn’t push. After a few moments, Moser took a deep breath and answered the question.

  “Sophie was a lovely person. She was smart, efficient, everyone liked her.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “God, no. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about her.”

  “Do you feel up to telling me what happened?”

  Moser nodded. “Someone sent me a box of chocolates in the mail.”

  “Do you know who sent it?”

  “No. There was no return address and no card. I assumed it was a member of the club.”

  “Any wrapping?”

  “Yes. I gave it to an officer.”

  “Did you eat any of the candy?” the detective asked.

  “No. I’m on a strict diet, so I gave them to Sophie.”

  Moser choked up again and Quinlan waited for him to regain his composure.

  “I’m sorry,” Moser apologized.

  “Don’t be,” Quinlan said. “I take it that you cared for Mrs. Randall.”

  “She was so nice, happily married, they have a five-year-old girl.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t given the candy to her—”

  “You’d have given it to someone else and they would be dead. This is not your fault. Get that straight. It’s the fault of the bastard who murdered Mrs. Randall. Now, can you think of who that might be?”

  Moser shook his head. “Everyone liked Sophie.”

  “What about you, Mr. Moser? The candy was sent to you, so I have to believe you were the intended victim. Did everyone like you? As the manager of a large establishment, you must have had run-ins with employees, club members—”

  Moser started to say something. Then he hesitated.

  “Have you thought of someone, Sam?” Ragland asked.

  “I’m very reluctant to accuse anyone, especially in a situation as serious as this.”

  “You’re not accusing anyone,” the deputy DA said. “You’re helping us gather information.”

  “There is someone who comes to mind, but…”

  “We’re not going to rush out and arrest someone without evidence,” Quinlan assured Moser. “The last thing we want to do is charge an innocent person with committing a serious crime. Now, who were you thinking about?”

  “Robert Chesterfield.”

  “Who is that?” Quinlan asked.

  “Robert Chesterfield is a thoroughly detestable individual who resigned from the club several months ago after a series of accusations of sexual harassment from female members and female employees. There were also suggestions that he cheated at cards. When I brought these complaints to his attention, he grew outraged and thr
eatened me. One of the complainants was Mrs. Randall.

  “What really concerns me is something that happened roughly two years ago. Lily Dowd is a very wealthy widow. She may have been the wealthiest member of the Westmont, and that is saying a lot.”

  “‘May have been’?” Quinlan asked.

  “Mrs. Dowd resigned when Mr. Chesterfield did.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mr. Chesterfield claims to be British. He’s also hinted that he has some sort of connection to the royal family, that he’s a lord or something.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I would take anything Robert Chesterfield said with an entire sack of salt.”

  “Okay. Go ahead. What happened two years ago, and what does it have to do with what happened today?”

  “I’ve been told that Mrs. Dowd met Chesterfield in London about a year after her husband, Frank Dowd, passed. Chesterfield moved to Oregon a few years ago. He’s very smooth and he talked his way into the club one evening. Mrs. Dowd was at the club that night. I have no proof, but I am willing to bet that the meeting at the Westmont was no coincidence.

  “In any event, Mrs. Dowd and Mr. Chesterfield began seeing each other, but Mrs. Dowd was also being courted by Arthur Gentry, another club member. Then Arthur died unexpectedly.”

  “Why was his death a surprise?” Quinlan asked.

  “Mr. Gentry was in his sixties but he always appeared to be in excellent health. Mrs. Dowd was very distraught at the news of Mr. Gentry’s passing, and Mr. Chesterfield was always there to comfort her. Within months of Mr. Gentry’s death, Mrs. Dowd married Chesterfield.”

  “So, Gentry dying opened the door for Chesterfield?” Quinlan said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what caused Arthur’s death?” Quinlan asked.

  “No. I just heard that he passed suddenly.”

  “Who can we talk to about Mr. Chesterfield?”

  “Mrs. Dowd has two adult children, Iris and Andrew. Iris is a doctor at Saint Francis Medical Center and Andrew is an attorney with the Reed, Briggs firm. They’re both members of the Westmont. From what I’ve been told, they were horrified when Mrs. Dowd married Chesterfield. Chesterfield has caused a rift between Mrs. Dowd and her children, and her resignation from the Westmont has isolated her from many of her friends.”

  “Can you get us a list of people who might help us in our investigation?” Quinlan asked.

  “I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Can you think of anyone else who might have a grudge against you or Mrs. Randall?”

  Before he could answer, the door opened and Landon Crawford walked in.

  “My God, Sam, I just heard.”

  “Who are you, sir?” Dillon asked.

  “It’s okay, Roger. I know the judge,” Quinlan said.

  Before his appointment to the federal bench, Crawford had been a trial judge on the Multnomah County Circuit Court. Crawford took a hard look at Quinlan. “You’re a detective, Quinlan, right? You testified in a few of my cases.”

  “That’s right, Judge. What are you doing here?”

  “He’s the chair of the Westmont board,” Ragland said.

  “I just learned that Sophie Randall is dead,” Crawford said. “What happened?”

  “She was poisoned, Landon,” Moser answered.

  “Poisoned? How could that happen?”

  “We just started our investigation,” Quinlan said. “We have an idea about what happened, but I don’t like speculating.”

  “Quite right,” Crawford agreed. Then he looked at Moser. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” Moser answered as a tear welled up.

  “I can see how upsetting this has been for you,” Quinlan said. “Do you have any more questions, Pete, Roger?”

  “Not right now,” the deputy DA said. Roger shook his head.

  Quinlan handed Moser his card. “Why don’t you go home. If you think of anything that might help us, please call.”

  Moser nodded and stood up to go. Crawford started to follow him.

  “Can you wait a moment?” Quinlan said. “I have a few questions for you.”

  “Certainly. Do you want me to drive you home?” the judge asked Moser.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  “How can I help?” Crawford asked as soon as the door closed behind Moser.

  “From what we know, someone sent a box of poisoned chocolates to Mr. Moser. He’s on a diet so he gave the candy to Mrs. Randall, who ate some and died.”

  “My God. Do you have any idea who sent them?”

  “No. Do you? Can you think of someone with a grudge against Mr. Moser or Mrs. Randall?”

  The judge went quiet and the detectives let him think. After a few minutes, Crawford’s brow furrowed and they could tell he’d thought of something.

  “One person does come to mind.”

  “Who’s that?” Quinlan asked.

  “There’s a man named Robert Chesterfield, an ex-member who resigned under pressure. He’d been cheating at cards, accosting the female staff. It was pretty sordid. Sam and I confronted him and he threatened Sam.”

  “That’s the only name Mr. Moser could come up with. He told us that Mr. Chesterfield and a Mr. Gentry were courting a Lily Dowd and mentioned that Mr. Gentry died shortly before Chesterfield and Dowd married. Do you know anything about that?”

  “My wife is a friend of Lily’s and she might know something of use.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I’ll set up a meeting.”

  “I have a question,” Peter Ragland interjected. “Were there ever any rumors about Sam and Sophie?”

  “What type of rumors?” the judge asked, although it was obvious from his facial expression that he knew exactly what the deputy district attorney was getting at.

  “Were they having an affair?”

  “You’re way off track with that.”

  Ragland shrugged. “I’ve got to ask. If something was going on and she was calling it off or threatening to tell Sam’s wife, there’s a scenario where Moser sends the candy to himself, then gives the box to Sophie under the pretext of being on a diet.”

  “No, no, Pete. I’ve been to Sam’s house and seen him at social occasions. He’s been married for twenty-plus years. He talks glowingly about his wife all the time. And Sophie has … had an equally happy marriage. She doted on her husband and their daughter.”

  “Okay. Good to know.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Judge Crawford?” Roger interjected.

  “This is Roger Dillon, my new partner. This is his first homicide case.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Crawford said. “Listen to Detective Quinlan. He’s one of the bright spots in the bureau. Now, what did you want to know?”

  “Is Mr. Chesterfield really British and from London?”

  “That’s what he claims. Why?”

  “Just an idea. Can you tell me anything more about his background?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t know him well. For that matter, I don’t think any of the members did.”

  Crawford left and Quinlan turned to his partner. “What’s your idea?”

  “I met a Scotland Yard inspector at a conference a year ago. I thought I’d give him a ring to see if he knows anything about Chesterfield. He seems to be our only lead.”

  “I’m not so sure about Moser,” Ragland said. “He seemed a little melodramatic. It could be he was putting on an act.”

  “I didn’t get that impression, Pete. His grief seems genuine,” Quinlan said. Dillon could tell that his partner was restraining himself.

  “Yeah, well, he could be a good actor. Let’s not cross him off our list yet.”

  “Sure thing,” Quinlan said. “Say, Pete, do you know Chesterfield?”

  “I know who he is. I have a bridge group I play with every Wednesday night when I can. We were short a man one evening and he sat in. That’s about it.”

  “What a
re your impressions?” Quinlan asked.

  “I don’t really have any. He seemed to know his bidding, if I remember correctly, but I can’t recall anything he said. I don’t know if I spoke to him after that.”

  “Did you witness any of the behavior that led to Chesterfield leaving?”

  “No. This job keeps me pretty busy, so I don’t get to the club as much as I’d like to.”

  “Okay. The lab techs should be done with the crime scene by now, so Roger and I are going to take a look.”

  As soon as Ragland and the detectives left the conference room, they heard someone yelling on the floor below. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they saw two police officers blocking a muscular young man in a garage mechanic’s uniform, who was trying to get around them.

  Samuel Moser put a restraining hand on the distraught man’s arm. “Please, Gary,” he pleaded.

  The man shook off Moser’s hand. “Let go of me.”

  Ragland and the detectives joined the group.

  “What’s going on?” the deputy DA asked.

  “This is Gary Randall, Sophie’s husband,” Moser explained.

  “Is she … When Margie called, she said she was…”

  “She didn’t suffer,” Moser lied. “It was very fast.”

  “Please, I have to see her,” Gary pleaded. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

  Quinlan stepped between the officers and Randall. “I know you want to see your wife, but she’s passed and she’s at peace. You don’t want to see her now. You should remember her the way she was the last time you saw her, when she was happy. That’s the memory you want.”

  Randall’s shoulders sagged and he started to sob. Quinlan escorted Randall into a room off the lobby and sat him on a sofa. Moser sat beside him.

  Randall looked up, his eyes filled with tears. “Who would want to do this?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Quinlan assured him. “We have our best people looking for evidence that will lead us to the person who hurt your wife.”

  “Where’s Jane?” Moser asked.

  Randall looked as though he’d been punched in the gut. “Oh God. How can I tell her that Sophie is—?” He broke down again, unable to say the word.

  “Jane?” Quinlan asked.

  “Their daughter,” Moser explained.