A Matter of Life and Death

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