Author's Note: This story was almost entirely written by L.M. Lewis, so it's only fair that it be dedicated to her. Picking up where we left off in "Cui Bono", we find Judge Hardcastle in front of the house, looking for McCormick after hearing a gunshot.

Pro Bono

Chapter One

"McCormick!" The judge heard his own pulse pounding in his ears.

It was the sudden absence of sound, the air filled only with the tang of gunpowder. The sun had slipped behind the trees and all he could make out was McCormick's white tee—he was down on the ground.

"Dammit," he muttered as he took off at a lope. If he'd had to explain his actions, he might have pointed out that the shooter had already had plenty of time to take him down, but all those thoughts were buried far beneath the more immediate concern.

He'd only made it half-way across the lawn when he saw something decidedly hopeful—movement. McCormick had obviously rolled, now slightly on his side. A few more steps and he could see the man was looking at him—glaring actually.

He arrived, stooped down, and was close enough to hear McCormick's hiss. "Are you out of your mind? I'm playing possum and you come trotting out here." The younger man squinted. "And no gun even?"

Hardcastle squinted right back, taking in the front of the McCorrmick's shirt—unbloodied. He finally tore his eyes from that, glanced around, and said, "I think he's gone."

McCormick glanced over his shoulder toward the bushes and grudgingly said, "Maybe." He pushed himself into a sitting position, "Not that you had anyway of knowing for sure."

"You get a look at him?"

Mark shook his head. "Just heard a bang and dropped—my right ear's still ringing. Musta come from over there." He pointed toward the line of bushes, about ten yards off. "One shot."

The judge glanced up at the sky. "Wish I'd brought a flashlight."

"Don't go tromping around back there. We think he vamoosed. Time to call in the professionals." McCormick wiped one hand against his jeans and winced, then poked at the pants leg again. "Buckshot. Musta caught a couple."

Hardcastle moved in for a closer look. "At that range coulda been a lot worse. You can walk?"

Mark bent his knee and shifted his weight onto it experimentally and then pushed up with a grunt. "Yeah, nothing vital. I think the mower took the hit for the team."

There was an increasing odor of gasoline above the persistent scent of smokeless powder. McCormick took a step toward it before Hardcastle snagged his elbow.

"Inside, now. Like you said—time to call the cops." He paused. As if on command they both heard a distant siren. Hardcastle sighed. "Or maybe one of the neighbors already has."

He tugged again and McCormick fell into step beside him, only glancing back once at the scene of the crime as they trudged toward the house.

00000

The first patrol car had indeed responded to calls from several neighbors reporting "shots fired". It wasn't an unheard-of event at Gull's Way and the officers hadn't had to look up the address. They pulled in, mars lights blazing, just as the two residents stepped onto the drive, with Hardcastle giving them a weary wave.

He gave them a précis which served as a launching point. Back-up was being called for as the judge escorted McCormick up the steps and into the light of the den. By the time Frank Harper arrived, about forty minutes later, Mark had already convinced the judge that an ambulance would be overkill. The bleeding had been staunched and a temporary dressing applied. He had to repeat the argument to Frank, of course, but the lieutenant settled for a shake of the head and a wry look.

It might not have been just Mark's casual attitude toward gun shot wounds that was the focus of Harper's discontent. He'd already taken a tour of the crime scene, and the technicians were nearly finished gathering what they needed.

"It was a booby-trap," Frank said. "A piece of green twine, staked out across the lawn. Must've been low enough to be hidden. It was rigged to a Remington twelve-gauge. The mower snags the twine, the gun goes off."

Mark frowned. "But at least we've got the gun—"

"Already ran the serial number," Frank drawled. "It's registered to Milton C. Hardcastle." He turned to the man in question. "The lock on your poolside stash is busted. I'll need you to tell me if any other weapons were taken."

The judge nodded once soberly.

Frank sighed and continued, as though quoting from a report not yet written, "The twine is a good visual match for the stuff you've got on your trellis."

"There's a ball of it in the garden shed," Mark said quietly. "So you're saying we've got nothing."

"Worse than that," Harper said grimly.

"He means it looks like an inside job," Hardcastle grumbled. "The gun even has our fingerprints on it, I'll bet. the busted lock, though—I woulda noticed that. Can't have been that way for long."

Frank pulled his notebook out. "Were you here all day?"

"Ah . . ." The judge suddenly looked reticent.

"I left first and got back first," Mark said, "so we were both here alone for a while. Tuition bills too high?" He cast a curious look at Hardcastle then shook his head. "Nah, don't worry. They'll figure I set it up myself. It fits my M.O.—I'm mechanically inclined."

Just who "they" were was left unspecified. All three men could clearly envision the list, starting with the D.A. who'd most recently had McCormick in for questioning regarding Professor Hawksworth's death.

"Look," Mark said rubbing the bridge of his nose, "it's been a long day. I think I'll hobble over to the gate house and put my leg up for a while." He heaved himself out of the chair.

Hardcastle was on his feet as well. "I'll walk you over there."

McCormick waved him away. "No, I'm fine. I've been banged up worse than this on the basketball court." With that he took the two steps up to the hallway gamely, as if to prove the point, and was gone.

He left a momentary silence in his wake. Hardcastle was too preoccupied to notice that Frank was dealing with his own demons. All he knew for certain was that this wasn't the ideal opportunity to tell the lieutenant that he'd found a perfectly innocent explanation that afternoon for the gunpowder residue on Professor Hawksworth's jacket. For one thing, he hadn't had a chance to tell McCormick—or, to be more accurate, he'd avoided telling him. He let out a heavy breath.

Harper glanced up.

Hardcastle shrugged. "One of those days."

"So where were you today?"

"Looking into some leads."

"Anything you wanna share?"

"Nothing useful . . . so far." Hardcastle suppressed a wince. He thought he might have stepped over the line into untruth—though what he'd uncovered was, in absolute fact, un-useful to McCormick's cause. He sighed and added, "I'll let you know if I nail anything down."

Frank seemed to be studying him closely, or maybe—Hardcastle had just an inkling, based on long acquaintance—he was holding back something on his side.

"Any news about Hawksworth's autopsy?" he inquired politely.

Frank shook his head. "Probably in the next day or so. Any idea who mighta had it in for your lawnmower?"

"You mean you don't think it was McCormick out there with the twine and the shotgun?"

Frank looked annoyed and Milt knew better than to push it with the only guy who didn't include McCormick among the usual suspects.

"Sorry," he said gruffly, "like I said, long day. Listen, you know as well as I do how many folks we've ticked off over the last four years. I'm working my way through the list but it's gonna take time."

The lieutenant gave that a pensive nod and said, "You might want to hustle a little on that."

Hardcastle lifted his head and studied the man sharply. It might only have been in reference to this evening's attack, or maybe some rumors from the ME's office that Hawksworth's cause of death would be labeled a homicide. The judge didn't feel he was in a position to demand more explanation—it was sound advice in any regard.

"Yeah," he finally said, "I will."