Violent Crimes (10 page)

When Billie Brewster entered the interrogation room, Brandon Masterson was slouched in his chair with his scrawny arms folded over his sunken chest and his lips curled into a superior smile. The suspect's long hair was unkempt and unwashed, and the beard that hid most of his face displayed trapped pieces of food. Most off-putting was the fact that Brandon had not bothered to change out of his blood-smeared T-shirt and jeans.

Billie developed an intense dislike for Brandon as soon as she saw him. She knew this was unprofessional, so she tamped down her feelings and kept her composure even though the suspect's smug attitude and disgusting appearance pushed several of her buttons.

“Hi, Brandon,” the detective said. “How are you doing? I gather you've been in here for a while. Do you want some food, coffee, a soft drink?”

“Chamomile tea and a scone would be great,” Brandon replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Billie smiled, refusing to take the bait. “You're in luck. There's a Starbucks a few blocks from here. I'll send someone over.”

Brandon stared across the table at the detective. “Let's get this over with.”

“If that's what you want. First, though, I've got to read you your rights.”

“Consider them read. I know I can remain silent and that anything I say can be used against me in court and I know I have a right to an attorney and one will be provided free of charge if I can't afford to hire an attorney. I'm waiving all those rights and I'm not being coerced. Is there anything I've missed?”

“No, Mr. Masterson, that covers everything. So, what do you want to tell me?”

“I killed Dale Masterson this afternoon.”

“How did you do that?”

“I beat him to death.”

“Why did you kill your father?”

“I was acting in defense of other people.”

“And who might they be?”

“Every living soul on this planet.”

“I'm not following you. Can you explain that to me?”

Brandon's features morphed from disdain into pure hate.

“Do you realize that our planet is dying? The ozone layer is being depleted at a rapid rate, raped by greenhouse gases and carbon emissions from coal, causing global warming that is shrinking the polar ice caps and destroying arable land. Oil spills and chemical pollutants are poisoning the food supply in our rivers and oceans. We will soon have no food to feed anyone but the very rich.”

“Just how is global warming connected to your father?” Billie asked.

“My father's law firm represents oil companies and coal mining companies
for profit
! He built his fancy mansion and bought his sports cars and his slut wife's fancy clothes with money he earned from murderers. He was no better than a Mafia don. No, I take that back. The Mafia never tried to murder an entire planet.”

Brandon took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Billie, daring the detective to contradict him.

“I get it now, but how does killing your dad stop global warming? The corporations are still polluting whether he's alive or dead, and his firm will keep representing them.”

“It sends a message that you will pay for your sins. If more CEOs and unethical lawyers start dying, maybe the CEOs and corporate lawyers who are still alive will think twice about what they're doing.”

“So you're hoping that your action will start a jihad against the polluters?”

Brandon flashed Billie a wide smile. “Exactly!”

“That's certainly an interesting approach to saving the planet. So, you want to walk me through your . . . act of civil disobedience. Why were you at your father's house today?”

“Global Mining, his latest client, is one of the worst polluters on the planet, and he was instrumental in bringing these vampires to his firm. I went to try and get him to realize that representing Global was like representing the companies that made the ovens for the Nazi concentration camps.”

“Did you tell your father you were coming?”

“No. I knew he wouldn't see me if I told him.”

“What happened when you got there?” Billie asked.

“He kicked me out last year when he disinherited me but he never changed the locks. I used my key and came inside.”

“Was there anyone else at home?”

“No.”

“What did you do once you were inside?”

“I went to the den,” Brandon said, but he faltered and his eyes got a faraway look.

“What happened next?” Billie prodded.

Brandon licked his lips and refocused. “He was sitting at his desk, working on something. As soon as he saw me he jumped up and ordered me out of the house. I . . . I told him he had to stop representing Global Mining but he paid no attention to what I was saying. He came around his desk and walked toward me. I was afraid he was going to attack me so . . . so I hit him and we fought and I knocked him down and . . . and I don't remember much after that except running out of the house.”

A few questions suggested themselves to Billie, and she was tempted to ask them, but she had her confession so she decided to pass.

“Thank you for being so honest, Brandon. I appreciate that. I'm going to have an officer take your clothes so we can have the lab test the blood. I'll try to get the jail to find a jumpsuit that will fit. I'll also have a statement typed up for you to sign. And I did mean it about the food. You've got to be hungry, unless killing your father also killed your appetite.”

The interrogation room was wired for sound, and an inconspicuous camera in a corner near the ceiling transmitted a picture of the interview to Alan Hotchkiss, who was watching and listening in an adjoining room.

“What do you think?” Billie asked as soon as she entered.

“If the blood on his clothes matches Dale Masterson's blood, I think we've closed another case.”

Billie didn't say anything.

“Okay, I'll bite. What's bothering you?” Hotchkiss said.

“Dale Masterson was a big, muscular guy, and Brandon . . . I just don't see him getting the better of his father in a fight.”

Hotchkiss shrugged. “That's what Masterson's partner said, and it makes sense on paper, but weird things happen in real life. Masterson may have been bigger and more muscular than his son but he was also a lot older, so he'd have slower reflexes. Maybe junior got in a lucky punch that knocked Masterson down.”

Billie shook her head. “Something about his story doesn't ring true. I'm worried there's something else going on here.”

“Hey, Billie, we're not talking about some petty misdemeanor where the kid is gonna get work release or a fine. Young Mr. Masterson just confessed to a crime with a possible death penalty. You don't do that for fun.”

“Still . . .”

“Be honest. How many cases have you investigated that have been tied up in a neat bow? There are usually some unanswered questions when a perp says he didn't do it. But there tend to be very few loose ends when the guy we arrest confesses. Now, I'm not suggesting we stop looking into this thing; Brandon obvi
ously has a few screws loose. But absent another viable suspect or some forensic evidence that points to a false confession, I'm going with the guy who had a motive, the means, and the opportunity, who was seen running from the scene of the crime and has just confessed.”

Mike had moved in on Saturday. Moving his things from his apartment had been exhausting and they'd gone to bed early. Sunday was supposed to be beautiful and Mike and Amanda had plans to sleep late, then visit a few Willamette Valley vineyards after they got up, but part of their plan went up in smoke when the answering service put through Sarah Hartmann's call at seven thirty in the morning.

Normally, Amanda would have asked Hartmann to come in on Monday morning, but her interest was piqued when Mrs. Hartmann told her that her son was accused of beating Tom Beatty's ex-boss to death, by the same method used to murder Christine Larson. Amanda agreed to meet Hartmann at nine, figuring that she and Mike could still get on the road by noon and make a day of it.

The Stockman Building was locked on Sundays and Hartmann was waiting on the sidewalk. Amanda introduced herself as she unlocked the street door and ushered Hartmann into the lobby.

“I'm sorry to have to ask you to meet on a Sunday,” Hartmann said, “but I didn't find out that Brandon had been arrested until I read the paper this morning.”

“There's no need to apologize,” Amanda said as they stepped into the elevator. “You're a mother, and your son is in a lot of trouble.”

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

Neither of them spoke on the ride up to the law office, and that gave Amanda a chance to study Hartmann. The woman was nervous and she fidgeted with her purse as they ascended. Her blond hair was expertly styled and she was wearing designer clothes, so Amanda deduced that she had money. Nothing else Amanda observed called that deduction into question. Amanda put Hartmann's age in the late forties or early fifties, but the work she'd had done would have fooled a lot of people into thinking she was ten or more years younger and her figure was trim and athletic. That suggested she worked out at an athletic club regularly, which meant that she had the leisure time and means to take care of herself.

“Have you spoken to Brandon since his arrest?” Amanda asked when they were seated in her office.

“No, and I'm not sure he would speak to me.”

“Can you explain that?”

“Brandon and I have been estranged for some time.” Hartmann paused. “Our family dynamic is . . . complicated.”

“What is your relationship to Mr. Masterson?” Amanda asked.

“I was Dale's first wife. Dale was a bastard. I'm not the least bit sorry he's dead. I worked to pay his tuition for law school and he repaid me by dumping me for some society bitch who could help
him get into the best country club and had the contacts to further his career. Then he screwed me when we divorced. Brandon was young, but old enough to see what his father had done to us. We went from living in a nice house to an apartment. Dale missed a lot of child support and alimony payments and I had to beg and threaten to get him to pay. Brandon had to leave private school for a public school. He's never done well socially and it was hell for him.

“Dale was an absentee parent. When he was around, he was cruel and abusive to both of us. He was very macho and Brandon was always weak and introverted as a child. Dale forced him to play sports, then he would belittle him when he failed. He also struck him on occasion, and he physically and verbally abused me as well.”

“Why do you think Brandon won't talk to you?” Amanda asked.

“Brandon was twelve when Dale left us. He was socially inept and lived on his computer. When he learned that Dale represented coal and oil companies, he rebelled by becoming a fanatic environmentalist. I don't approve of everything he does but in a way I was glad, because he left the house and got involved with people when he protested instead of staying in his room all day.”

Hartmann stopped talking and looked down at her lap.

“What caused the rift between you and your son?” Amanda asked gently.

“I did something for which he has never forgiven me. I married an attorney from Dale's old firm. I knew Richard socially when I was still married to Dale. Dale left us shortly after break
ing away from his old firm. Richard was recently divorced and we'd always been friendly. I was also desperate to provide for Brandon. Richard is a good man, but Brandon never forgave me for marrying a lawyer who represented the companies he despised. He moved out as soon as he graduated from high school. We tried to help him with his college tuition but he wouldn't accept any money from us.”

“So he went to school?”

Hartmann nodded. “Community college. He worked his way through and transferred to Portland State for his last two years. He has a degree in environmental science.”

“Will Brandon let you pay me to represent him?”

“I don't know. He may refuse and insist on getting a public defender.”

Hartmann looked down for a moment. Amanda heard her gulp in air. When the woman looked up there were tears in her eyes.

“I just want what's best for him. I love him so.”

The guard led Brandon Masterson into the contact visiting room. As the prisoner was taking his seat, Amanda studied him. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and his hair and beard were wild. Amanda frowned. Brandon looked familiar, but she was certain they had never met.

“Who are you?” Brandon asked as soon as the guard left.

“I'm Amanda Jaffe, Brandon, and I'd like to be your lawyer.”

“I don't have the money to hire a lawyer, which makes you an ambulance chaser.” Brandon's lips curled into a sneer. “How
many new clients do you figure you'll get from the publicity my case will generate?”

“I'm here because your mother is very worried about you. She asked me to see you.”

“Then we definitely don't have anything to talk about.”

“That's where you're wrong. It's time for a reality check. You're charged with aggravated murder. If you're convicted you will receive one of three sentences: life with the possibility of parole after thirty years, which means you'll rot in prison until you are at least fifty-six; life without parole, which means you'll rot in prison until you die; or death by lethal injection. And don't think it will be a picnic if you avoid the death penalty. Your mom told me that high school was hell for you. Well, guess what. Bullies just like the ones who beat you up in high school make up the majority of the prison population, and they live to prey on the weak. If you're lucky you'll only be beaten a few times a week. If you're unlucky, you'll end up as some biker's sex slave. So before you kick me out let's talk, because you are in dire need of the type of help I can give you.”

When Brandon didn't answer with a wisecrack, Amanda forged on.

“Check me out and you'll see that I'm in a good firm and I'm doing just fine financially. If I take your case it won't be for the publicity—it will be to help you. I met Dale Masterson when I represented another young man charged with murder who worked as a paralegal in his firm. I thought Mr. Masterson was cold and calculating. And I have the same feelings about the polluters he represents as you do.

“What I'd like to do is just have a talk about you and the fix
you're in. You can ask me any questions you want to ask and I'll answer them honestly. After we've talked, you can decide if you want me to help you. If you don't think we can work together there won't be any hard feelings on my part. You have to be happy with the lawyer who represents you, because you're going to spend a lot of time together and you have to have confidence in that lawyer to do his or her best for you. So, do you want to talk?”

“What happened to the paralegal?” Brandon asked.

“I helped him and he's out of jail. I work very hard for my clients, Brandon. I don't always win their cases, but I always give them one hundred percent of my effort and I've gotten more good results than bad.

“Before I came to visit you I read and listened to every report about your case that I could find. The police are saying that Mr. Masterson was beaten to death in the den in his house. Is that true?”

Brandon looked distressed for a moment. Then he nodded.

“They're also saying that Mr. Masterson's wife saw you running from the house and she claims she saw blood on your clothing.”

Brandon nodded again.

“In his press conference, the detective in charge of your case said that you came to the police station and confessed to beating your father to death. Did you do that?”

Brandon nodded again.

“Okay,” Amanda said. “I'm going to be completely honest with you. Anytime a case involves violence the prosecutors get very serious, and the more evidence of guilt prosecutors have, the less likely they are to want to negotiate a plea. In this case, not only do they have a witness who says she saw you running from the
crime scene, they also have your confession. But there are still things I can do for you. The first thing I can do is try to negotiate a plea to a crime less serious than aggravated murder . . .”

Brandon shook his head. “No pleas. I demand a trial.”

“That's your right, and I won't be able to advise you whether that's the best way to proceed until I've had full discovery from the DA, but it may not be the best way to go if the evidence is overwhelming.”

“I don't care. I'm going to trial if I have to represent myself. I need to make the world understand how my father and the polluters his firm represents are murdering the Earth. That's why I killed him. I know a person is not guilty of murder if they are defending themselves or another person from serious harm. And I was defending all the people of Earth when I killed that bastard, because he was a direct threat to our environment.”

“So you want to use your trial to let everyone know about the dangers of pollution?”

“And the vile companies and disgusting lawyers who are killing the planet for profit.”

“What if you're found guilty and sentenced to death?” Amanda asked.

“I wouldn't be the first person in history to die for my ideals and the greater good.”

“That's true,” Amanda said as one avenue of defense occurred to her. It would be worthwhile to have Brandon interviewed by a topflight forensic psychiatrist to see if she had a basis for an insanity defense.