“Any ID?”
Grace shook her head. “No wallet, so I’m guessing he’s the victim of a robbery. But you’re the detectives.”
Dillon and Anders followed Grace to the body, which was surrounded by techs from the crime lab. A tent had been erected over the corpse to shield the area around the body from the rain, but Dillon figured that any evidence that might help find the perpetrator had been washed away by the heavy downpour.
He started to say something, then stopped in midsentence and squatted next to the corpse. “This is Henry Beathard. He was a Multnomah County Circuit Court judge until he retired a few years ago.”
Anders stared at the dead man’s face. Then she shook her head sadly. “You’re right. I testified in his court a few times. He was a good guy and a fair judge. What a shame.”
Dillon stood up. “Are there any witnesses?”
“A shopper walked past the body on the way to her car and called 911. The first responder took her statement. She didn’t hear the shots. There weren’t many cars here this late, so she probably would have seen a car leaving, but she says she didn’t see anyone walking or driving away.”
Dillon used his phone to take a picture of Beathard’s face. “I’m going inside to talk to the people in the store,” Dillon said. “Maybe someone noticed a person watching the judge or acting oddly.”
“See if they have security cameras trained on this spot.”
“Will do.”
“Let us know what the autopsy turns up,” Anders said to Dr. Grace.
The detectives headed for the store. Dillon had heard the judge was married and had grandkids. He sighed. You work hard, keep your nose clean, look forward to retirement, and life happens. It wasn’t fair, but Dillon knew that life’s not being fair was the rule and not the exception.
* * *
Regina Barrister and Stanley Cloud were cuddling on the sofa, holding hands when the evening news came on. Regina had made a habit of watching the evening news years ago when she started practicing law, because people featured at eleven o’clock at night often phoned her first thing in the morning. She’d kept the routine even when events that should have been familiar became less so.
“A fatal shooting in the parking lot of a Portland supermarket has brought a tragic end to the life of Henry Beathard, a retired and respected Multnomah County judge,” the newscaster said as the screen showed yellow crime-scene tape brightening a dark, waterlogged parking lot.
“Ah no,” Stanley moaned.
Regina’s brow furrowed. “Did you know him?”
“Yes, and you did, too, Reggie. You had several cases in Henry’s court.” Stanley sighed. “He was a really good guy. We had dinner with him and Marie a few times too. You liked Henry. You thought he was a very good judge.”
Regina paused as a thought tickled the edge of her memory. “Did I have any big cases in his court?”
“You might be thinking about a man you defended a long time ago, Robert Chesterfield. He’s a magician.”
“Why does he sound so familiar?”
“Robin, your partner, represented him a couple of years ago. She came here to talk to you about him. Then he disappeared. His name was in the paper today. He’s back in town, and he’s going to perform a show at the Imperial. That’s what you’re probably thinking about.”
“Robert Chesterfield,” Regina repeated. “What did he do?”
“They said that he murdered two people, but you were brilliant, and you forced the DA to dismiss the case.”
“Was he guilty?”
“You were evasive the only time we talked about the case. You said that you would have had a reasonable doubt if you served on his jury, but you never told me what you really thought about his culpability.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Robin entered the contact visiting room at the jail, she found James O’Leary sitting with his hands folded in front of him, smiling serenely like a Buddhist who has achieved Nirvana.
“Hi, Mr. O’Leary. My name is Robin Lockwood. I’m a lawyer, and Father Gregory asked me to help you with your case.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Jimmy said.
“You’re charged with attempted murder, so you probably do need a lawyer.”
“God is my attorney.”
“God won’t be able to represent you in an Oregon court unless he’s a member of the Oregon State Bar.”
The smile never left Jimmy’s face, but he did shake his head. “It ain’t nice to joke about the Lord, Miss Lockwood.”
“You’re right. I apologize. But Father Gregory is very worried about you, and he wants me to help out. Do you have any objection to my working with God to help him get a just result?”
Jimmy thought for a moment. “I guess that would be okay.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Jimmy told Robin about Peter Knox, Loretta, and Timothy Rankin. Then he told her about digging the gun and the bullets out from under the junk in the shed and what had happened at Rankin’s house. When Jimmy had finished, Robin had a few ideas about what had turned Timothy Rankin into a superhero.
* * *
Several days of rain had given way to a few dry days. A heavyset man with a beer belly and thick beard was sitting on his front porch, drinking a Widmer IPA and taking advantage of the weather.
“Timothy Rankin?” Robin asked when she and Jeff Hodges walked up.
“Who wants to know?”
Robin held out her business card. “I’m Jimmy O’Leary’s attorney, and this is Jeff Hodges. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“Is this about Jimmy saying he tried to shoot me?”
“Yes.”
Rankin broke out laughing. “Those cops said Jimmy told them he shot me in the chest and the bullets bounced off.” Rankin laughed again. “Does Jimmy think I’m Superman?”
“So, you’re saying that Jimmy didn’t shoot you.”
“Would I be talking to you if Jimmy shot me?” Rankin shook his head. “Did they test Jimmy for drugs, because it sounds to me like he was smoking something powerful.”
“If Jimmy didn’t shoot you, why did you call the police?”
“I didn’t.” Rankin cocked his head toward the house next door. “It was the neighbor. She’s always sticking her nose in where it don’t belong.”
“Jimmy said he threw the gun away. Did the police find the gun or the bullets?”
“I saw them looking around, but I don’t know how they’d find something that was never there.”
“Am I correct in concluding that you will not testify that Jimmy O’Leary tried to kill you?” Robin asked.
“Of course not. I like Jimmy. We were cellmates. I don’t know why he made up this crazy story, but it is crazy.” Rankin chuckled. “Jimmy is fucked up in the head, if you ask me. Bullets bouncing off me. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
Robin decided to go while the getting was good. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rankin.”