A Matter of Life and Death Page 7
Hennessey drove to the far end of the hedge and up to the garage. The only lights he could see were in a room at the front of the house. Hennessey followed the judge to the front door. It was wide open, and the wind was blowing rain into the entryway. Carasco stepped inside and flipped a switch. The light from a large crystal chandelier illuminated the foyer.
“What’s that?” Hennessey said, pointing toward the living room.
Carasco turned. Then he took a few tentative steps before stopping at the entrance to the living room. Hennessey looked over the judge’s shoulder. He tried to understand what he was seeing. When the full horror registered, Hennessey turned away and put his hand over his mouth, praying that he would keep down his dinner.
The judge backed out of the living room. He took Hennessey’s arm and led him to the other side of the entryway.
“Are you okay?” Carasco asked.
“Hell no,” Hennessey managed.
“Well, pull yourself together. I’m going to call the police. When they get here, they’re going to talk to us. It may not come up, but if they ask why we were together tonight, you can’t mention Stacey and the warrants. That’s for your own protection. Do you understand me?”
Hennessey nodded.
“If they ask, tell them that I’ve been mentoring you and you were asking me to tell you what you did right and wrong in the case you had with Lockwood.”
“Okay.”
Carasco pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. Hennessey wondered how Carasco could be so calm moments after seeing the hideous way his wife had been murdered.
* * *
Detectives Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon were next up in the homicide rotation, so they donned their rain gear, grabbed takeaway cups of black coffee, and headed up the winding roads that led to the most exclusive section of the West Hills. The rain had faded to an annoying drizzle by the time they parked in front of the Carasco home. A uniform was waiting at the sidewalk and handed them a pen so they could log in on the sheet that listed everyone who visited the crime scene.
Carrie was tall, heavyset, and as strong as some men. She had sleepy brown eyes, a lumpy nose, and shaggy black hair. Her lumbering gait and slow drawl often fooled some criminals into thinking that the college math major was slow-witted. That usually worked to their disadvantage.
Roger Dillon was a lanky African American with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, who was several years older than his partner and just as wise. They were the most effective team in Portland Homicide.
Dr. Sally Grace was waiting for them in the entryway. The assistant medical examiner was a slender woman with frizzy black hair, sharp blue eyes, and a macabre sense of humor that was a psychological requirement for someone in her line of work.
“What’s up, Doc?” Roger asked. Neither woman seemed to recognize the Bugs Bunny reference, and Roger felt his age.
“The victim is Elizabeth Carasco.”
“Judge Carasco’s wife?” asked Dillon.
Dr. Grace nodded.
“She was killed in the living room,” Grace said, pointing toward a doorway blocked by lab techs in Tyvek suits. “She was beaten to death, and her face is a mess. The judge found her. He’s in the den with Ian Hennessey, the deputy DA who drove him home. The den is at the end of that hall. They’re both pretty shook up.”
Roger and Carrie walked to the living room doorway and studied the corpse. Years of experiencing the sickening ways people treated their fellow humans usually inured them to the horrors one person could inflict on another person, but they could not help being affected by the thought of what Betsy Carasco had endured.
“We’ll get out of your hair,” Roger told Dr. Grace. “Let us know if you find anything interesting.”
“Will do.”
Grace headed back to the living room, and the detectives walked toward the den.
“I never thought I’d feel compassion for Anthony Carasco,” Roger said, “but seeing what was done to that poor woman makes me sad.”
“You don’t like Carasco?”
“Did you ever work with him when he was a DA or appear in his court?” Roger asked.
“A few times.” Carrie paused. “Yeah, I get you. Do you want me to take the judge?”
“No, I’ll do it. I’ll pretend we have rapport.”
They found the judge and the prosecutor sitting side by side nursing glasses of scotch in deep armchairs that stood in front of a marble fireplace with a carved wood mantel. Roger studied Ian Hennessey. The prosecutor’s normally pale complexion looked completely drained of color, and the detective wondered if Hennessey had seen Mrs. Carasco’s corpse and thrown up. He turned his attention to Carasco.
“How are you doing, Judge?” Roger asked.
Carasco clasped his glass with both hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without Betsy.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what she went through.”
“Do you feel up to talking?” Roger asked.
Carasco looked up. His face was a portrait of rage. “I want this bastard found, so you bet I want to talk.” He pointed at Hennessey. “We both saw him. I can tell you exactly what he looks like.”
“You saw Mrs. Carasco’s killer?” Carrie said.
“He was standing in the road. We caught him in our headlights,” Carasco told the detectives. “I can also narrow down the time of death.”
It was bad procedure to interview witnesses together. Roger didn’t want the judge influencing the young DA’s version of events and vice versa. Getting Hennessey out of the study would also give Carrie a chance to see if he needed help.
“Is there someplace quiet where Carrie can talk to Ian while you tell me what you saw?” Roger asked.
“I don’t think anyone is in the kitchen. It’s in the back of the house.”
As soon as Carrie and Ian left, Roger sat in the armchair Hennessey had vacated and angled it so he could look at the judge.
“I’m really sorry, Judge. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thank you, Roger. I still haven’t gotten my head around the fact that Betsy is … that I’ll never see her again.” The judge took a deep breath. “Ask your questions. I know how crucial the first hours of an investigation are.”
“They are. But I respect your situation. If you want to stop at any time…”
“I’ll be okay. What do you want to know?”
Roger was old-fashioned, and he took out a notebook and a pen instead of using technology for note-taking.
“How can you narrow the time of death?” he asked.
“I was in court all day. Ian had an afternoon hearing before me. After the hearing, he told my bailiff that he wanted to see me. I had a conference call, so I couldn’t see him then, and I told him to wait.
“After the conference call, I suggested that we talk over dinner at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from the courthouse. The reason I can narrow the time of … when Betsy died is because she called during dinner. I can confirm the time she called with my cell phone’s call log. Betsy was alive at seven fifteen.”
“How did she seem when she talked to you?”
“Fine, normal. If you’re asking whether she sounded like she was under duress, the answer is she did not.”
“Thank you. That’s very helpful. Go on.”
“I’d taken Lyft to work, and I asked Ian to drive me home. We finished our meal and drove onto my street sometime after eight. That’s when we saw the man who…”
Carasco looked down. His hands balled into fists.
“Are you okay? Do you want to take a break?”
Carasco shook his head and drank some more scotch. “No. I just…”
“I understand.”
Carasco took a deep breath. “Ask your questions.”
“You said you saw a man outside your house. Can you describe him?”
“I was sitting in the front seat of the car, and he was a few houses from us, but he was definitely black, and he seemed to be average height.”<
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Carasco closed his eyes and tilted forward, deep in thought. When he opened his eyes, he looked triumphant.
“He had a scar! It was on his cheek. His right cheek.”
“You could see this from that far away?”
“Ian had his high beams on. It was like he was standing in a spotlight on a stage. I’m sure of the scar.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He was wearing a black rain jacket with a hood.”
“I assume that the hood was up because of the rain.”
“Yes.”
“And you could still see the scar?”
“When we turned into my street, he turned and stared at our car. The hood slipped back.”
“Okay. This is very useful,” Roger assured the judge. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”
Carasco thought for a moment before shaking his head.
“There are going to be people in and out of the house all night. Do you have someplace you can stay?”
“I’ll make a reservation at a hotel near the courthouse.”
“That’s good. Maybe Ian can drive you. Pack up your stuff, and I’ll see if Carrie is through talking to him.”
Roger put his notebook away and walked to Carasco’s kitchen, which seemed to be as big as Roger’s house. It was a large, open area dominated by a granite island. Roger spotted two dishwashers, two sinks, and a massive refrigerator-freezer. Carrie was talking to Hennessey at a rustic wooden table in a breakfast nook. She looked at her partner when he walked in.
“You finished with the judge?” she asked.
Roger nodded.
“We’re pretty much done here.” She turned to the prosecutor. “Is there anything you want to add, Ian?”
“No. Not now. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”
“Do that,” Carrie said as she passed Hennessey her card.
“The judge is going to stay at a hotel until we’re finished with the house,” Roger said. “Can you give him a lift?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“He’s packing. Why don’t you wait for him in the entryway?”
Hennessey looked shaky when he stood up.
“Is he okay?” Roger asked Carrie when Hennessey was out of earshot.
“He got a good look at Mrs. Carasco, and it really got to him.”
“Did he say anything useful?” Roger asked.
“The guy he saw leaving the house was black, medium height, and medium build, which fits a lot of the African American males in Portland.”
“Did he mention the scar?” Roger asked.
“He didn’t say anything about a scar.”
“The judge is certain the man he saw had a scar on his right cheek.”
Carrie frowned. “Ian said that it was raining hard when they turned into Carasco’s street. The wipers were going, and they were a few houses away from the man when they saw him. In other words, the visibility was shit.”
Roger shrugged. “Carasco says he saw the scar. He said Ian had his high beams on and the guy’s hood fell back.”
“That’s definitely going to help, if we have a suspect.”
“This looks like a robbery gone bad. If we’re lucky, the perp was stupid and we’ll get some juicy latents,” Roger said.
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Roger smiled.
“Did Ian mention a phone call around seven or so from the wife to the judge, while they were eating?” he asked.
“He did. I checked when he told me. They bagged the victim’s cell phone. There was a call to the judge’s cell phone at seven thirteen.”
“I guess we can cross Carasco off our list of suspects.”
“Yeah,” Carrie agreed. “The husband’s usually the first person I look at when a wife is the victim, but Carasco was in the courthouse until six or so and with Ian the rest of the evening, so he’s got a solid alibi.”
“Let’s check with Sally and the lab techs,” Roger said.
Dr. Grace was leaving when Carrie and Roger returned to the entryway. She told them that she’d found nothing to contradict her initial impression that Betsy Carasco had died from blunt force trauma and that she would call if the autopsy turned up something else.
Ian Hennessey and Judge Carasco were preparing to leave while the detectives were talking to the medical examiner. Carrie talked to them briefly, then the two of them left the crime scene and made their way to Hennessey’s car. When he saw the judge and the prosecutor leave, the head of the team from the crime lab walked over. He told the detectives that they had found some muddy sneaker prints in the hall and many latents in the living room, which was to be expected. He agreed to call when they had been analyzed.
The rain had stopped when the detectives walked out of Carasco’s house. Roger looked at the horizon. The sun was rising behind Mount Hood, spraying the sky with vibrant reds and yellows. That lifted his spirits, and they rose higher when a policewoman ran over to them and told them about a call from headquarters.
“Detective Hammond at Homicide received an anonymous tip about the murder,” the officer told them. “The caller said a guy named Joseph Lattimore did it during a robbery.” The policewoman showed Carrie a mugshot that had been scanned to her. “The caller said that Lattimore is staying at the Riverview Motel on Division.”
Roger frowned. This was very convenient, but then again, a lot of crimes were solved by anonymous tips.
“He’s got a scar on his right cheek,” Carrie said.
Roger sighed. “I was counting on solving this case through brilliant detective work.”
Carrie smiled. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Let’s get some backup and head to the motel.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Joe staggered through the woods with no idea where he was going. Tree limbs raked his face, and tree roots tripped him. When he fell, mud caked his legs and soaked his pants.
In the beginning of his flight from the crime scene, adrenaline kept Joe moving, but it wore off after a while, and all he felt was despair. Maria and the baby meant everything to him, and he was certain that he would lose them. What a fool he’d been. He had known that illegal fights were run by gangsters, and he’d fought anyway. Now he might pay the ultimate price if he was arrested for a murder he had not committed.
At some point, Joe found a trail and followed it down until it ended at a road. The rain had let up, but he was cold and exhausted. He checked a street sign and learned that he was on the west side of the Willamette, miles from the motel.
Joe rested until he had his breath back. Then he started jogging toward the closest bridge. As he ran toward Maria, he thought about the fight. Something had been wrong with Carlos. He had moved so slowly, and there was the glazed look in his eyes. He was certain that Carlos had been drugged, which meant that the fight had been fixed and he’d been set up. Once he’d killed Carlos, they had him, and they’d made him the perfect fall guy.
The sun was starting to rise when he knocked on the door to the motel. Maria opened the door and stared at her husband. Joe had fallen more than once, and his jeans were soaking wet and covered with mud. His shoulders sagged, and he looked exhausted.
“Where have you been?”
“Pack up,” Joe said without answering her.
“We just got here.”
“It’s not safe.”
Maria stared at Joe. He averted his eyes.
“Why isn’t it safe? What did you do?”
Joe was about to answer when he heard several cars pull into the lot below his room. He pulled back the shade. Armed police officers were getting out of the cars and following a large woman and slender black man up the stairs.
Joe felt like crying. He’d failed his family. Maria and the baby would be lost to him and thrown on the mercy of the state. He doubted that he’d ever get them back again.
“Stay inside,” he said. Then he opened the door and walked onto the landing with his hands in the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY
During the drive downtown, Ian Hennessey and Judge Carasco barely said a word. Hennessey was exhausted from answering Carrie Anders’s questions and in shock after seeing Betsy Carasco’s mutilated body, and nothing he thought of saying to comfort the judge seemed appropriate. A little after two in the morning, the young prosecutor dropped the judge at a hotel a few blocks from the courthouse.
Hennessey lived on the fourteenth floor of a new condo in northwest Portland. Wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows gave him a spectacular view of the city lights, the river, and the mountains. He could afford to live in luxury because a hefty trust fund supplemented his salary.
Hennessey collapsed onto his king-size bed shortly after entering the condo, but he had a hard time getting to sleep. The horror at Carasco’s house had made him forget his ordeal at Stacey Hayes’s apartment, but the threat she posed came flooding back as soon as he closed his eyes.
What was he going to do about the warrants? He’d been counting on Judge Carasco to help him, but the judge would be preoccupied with his wife’s murder and her funeral, and this wasn’t the time to approach him. That meant he would have to make a decision that could destroy his career, and his career meant a lot to him.
Ian’s parents were A-plus-plus personalities. His Princeton and Harvard Medical School–educated father was a brilliant, highly compensated physician. His mother was a very successful stockbroker. Ian had never been able to live up to their expectations, and his parents had done a poor job of hiding their disappointment.
In high school, Ian had finished with a B average only because no one at his exclusive prep school received a grade below a B. He had flunked out of the top-ten college his parents’ pull and donations had gotten him into, and he had graduated with a low-B average from a state college. Ian knew that he would never have gotten his job with the district attorney’s office if his parents hadn’t pulled some strings, but he’d come to love his job, and he was desperate to make a success of this chance. Now, through no fault of his own, he was once again on the brink of failure.