Playing Dead

by Allison Brennan

  She pulled out her father’s letter. Frank Lowe. She knew nothing about him except what her father said: that he was someone Chase Taverton had cut a deal with. How would Lowe be able to clear her father?

  Was he dead, like Oliver?

  She needed to see the evidence against her father. She was an investigator and while she didn’t investigate murder, she knew what was staged and what was real. Like Ben Holman’s arson. Obviously arson, staged to look like a theft.

  Claire broke out in a sweat. Her father’s guilt made sense on the surface, but there were so many layers when Chase Taverton was added to the equation as more than her mother’s lover. There was a damn good chance that everyone had drawn the wrong conclusions. And Claire saw a new reality, one where she’d been deadly wrong.

  Claire now saw flaws in the prosecution’s argument. Flaws that a good defense attorney should have exploited. Or was she seeing the flaws only because she wanted her father to be innocent? She rubbed her temples, feeling the pressure of a growing tension headache.

  A criminal lawyer named Prescott had represented her father. She made a note to track him down and find out what, if anything, he knew or remembered from the trial, perhaps something that Claire had been too catatonic to notice at the time.

  She had told the truth on the stand. The whole truth as she’d seen it. That alone may not have been enough to convict her father, but it had destroyed his life.

  She would discover the truth about that terrible day no matter what it took. Once and for all, Claire had to know for certain that her father was guilty . . . or innocent.

  SIXTEEN

  Mitch had only worked in the Sacramento regional FBI office for two years, but until now he hadn’t had reason to observe an autopsy at the county coroner’s office. Generally, the FBI simply reviewed the reports if they were involved. But Mitch wanted to be hands-on. Steve came along.

  Deputy Clarkston greeted Mitch and Steve when they arrived. “Thanks for letting us come,” Steve said diplomatically.

  Clarkston shrugged. “You did the heavy lifting yesterday. If you want to watch the autopsy, fine by me. My boss said whatever you need, to help. But we’re working the case, just so you know.”

  “Good,” Steve said when Mitch wanted to argue. “We’ll give you whatever help you need, but it’s all yours.”

  Clarkston relaxed and opened the door to the observation room.

  The small room was cramped for three broad-shouldered cops. They stood, pushing the two chairs to the corners. A television high in one corner was blank. Mitch flicked a switch and static ensued.

  Clarkston tapped on the window and caught the attention of a young forensic pathologist. He turned on the mic. “Can we get a visual here? And we will need two copies of the tape.”

  She nodded and switched on the camera above the body.

  The pathologists all wore face masks, gowns, gloves, and booties, but that was the extent of their protective clothing. The three of them in the room were all women.

  Mitch wanted to tell Steve what he’d learned from Claire’s computer, but the information had been obtained illegally. Meg would have a meltdown: She was a stickler for constitutional law. You don’t bend the rules—any of them.

  Mitch glanced at the dead body. They would have confirmation within the hour—the dental records from his hometown dentist had been overnighted and the chief pathologist was off right now comparing the corpse’s dental X-rays to those of Maddox.

  Just last night he’d promised Steve that he would keep nothing from him, nothing that could jeopardize the capture of Thomas O’Brien. But what did he know now, really? Claire had done a few Google searches on the principals of the case. What did that tell them? It wasn’t illegal for Claire to look into her father’s case.

  But Mitch knew there was more to it than that.

  The external exam now over, the internal exam was beginning. The senior pathologist made the first incision.

  Maddox’s body was pale, the skin having dissolved. The body was a lumpy mass of human Jell-O. Because it had been in fresh, cold water, putrefaction had slowed, but bacteria had still done severe damage. If Maddox had drowned, there was no way to prove it. Only through external investigation—accident site, damage to the car, mental state of the victim prior to disappearance—could they determine it had been an accident rather than murder. A bullet would be nice, Mitch thought, but there had been no obvious wounds on the body when they’d bagged him underwater yesterday.

  And looking at the body now, Mitch couldn’t see anything obvious. There were no visible wounds that would indicate cause of death. No bullet or knife wounds. But with the skin slippage and advanced putrefaction, obvious wounds might be unnoticeable.

  Mitch watched in silence as the pathologists removed and weighed organs that no longer had the color and shape they should have. How they knew what section was the heart and what was the lungs, he didn’t know.

  When the senior pathologist removed the brain, she said, “Now this is interesting.”

  “What?” Mitch asked.

  She pulled the camera in closer and Mitch focused on the television screen over his head. “See it?”

  “No.” All Mitch saw was a lump of dark mass that had the basic form of a brain.

  “Here.” She took a scalpel and touched a section of the brain that was a slightly different color than the remainder.

  “Okay, you got me. What?”

  “This is discolored because it was bruised prior to death.”

  “Are you saying he was hit on the back of the head before he died?”

  “I’m saying that his brain was bruised prior to death, but there were no open wounds.”

  “How can you tell?” Clarkston asked, nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “The fish would have attacked his brain if it was bleeding externally at the time of death,” the pathologist said. “Though you might want a professional marine biologist to consult.”

  “You’re right,” Mitch said. “Fish and other organisms in the water would have focused their feeding activities on any exposed areas. You can see that they primarily ate the face and fingers. What about his skull?”

  “I’m getting to that,” she said, slightly irritated. Mitch swallowed a snide comment.

  “There wasn’t anything as obvious as a bashed-in skull,” she continued, “when we made the external examination.” With the help of one of the assistants, she turned Maddox’s body on one side. She examined the skull closely. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Mitch couldn’t help but ask.

  “There is a fine crack in the skull. Here, right at the base.” She pulled the camera closer. Mitch could see the damage only when she pointed it out using the sharp end of her scalpel.

  “That’s interesting,” Clarkston said.

  The chief pathologist stepped into the room and said, “I’m done with the comparison. Your victim is Oliver Maddox. I’ll write up a report and send it to your office.” Then he was gone.

  Nothing that Mitch didn’t already know, but it was nice getting the confirmation.

  “What’s that?” the assistant pathologist said from the room.

  Mitch turned his attention back to the table. The stomach had been removed—or what was left of it. Inside was something bright pink.

  The senior pathologist placed the stomach on the scale and cut it open. She removed the object and frowned.

  “It’s plastic.”

  “It’s a flash drive,” Mitch said, incredulous, staring at the thin device half the length of his thumb. “That was in his stomach?”

  “Yes,” the pathologist said.

  “You’re sure, right? Stomach and not the intestines?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Why is that important?” Steve asked.

  “Because it would have passed through within twelve to twenty-four hours. If it was in his stomach, he likely swallowed it within six hours of death.”

  “Swallowed a flash drive?” Clarkst
on asked. “What on earth for?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Mitch said. He looked the deputy in the eye. “Will you let us work the drive? I’ll send you a report as soon as we know what’s on it.”

  Clarkston frowned. “Well—”

  Steve said, “Our Silicon Valley lab is state of the art. Twenty-four hours or less.”

  Clarkston was reluctant, but said, “Okay.”

  “Pink,” Mitch said. “I’ll bet it was his girlfriend’s. Maybe she knows what’s on it.”

  “Twenty bucks we get nothing from that,” Steve said to Mitch.

  Mitch didn’t want to take the bet, but said nonetheless, “You’re on.”

  SEVENTEEN

  After getting a copy of Oliver Maddox’s missing person report from the Davis Police Department, Claire drove back to Sacramento and headed to the county archives. She’d been so tense after her conversation with Collier she decided to postpone talking to Oliver’s girlfriend Tammy. She needed to go over her father’s trial transcripts and see if Frank Lowe had played a role she didn’t remember. But more important, to truly follow in Oliver’s footsteps, she needed to know these case files inside and out. Something in the files Oliver found at the Western Innocence Project had piqued his interest. Maybe she’d see the same thing.

  The archives housed most county records and Claire had been there many times in the course of her investigative work. Generally, she’d have to wait to access files—they needed to be researched and pulled. Depending on workload, it could take a few minutes or several days. But Claire played the grieving daughter card and it worked. The bureaucrat behind the desk took pity on her and pulled the O’Brien case file out of order.

  Twenty minutes later, Claire sat in the far corner of the public area staring at the outside of a brown file box. One box. The entire case against her father had been reduced to a box. Murder trials often had dozens of archived boxes. Everything went inside—police reports, crime scene photos, depositions—anything used in the trial.

  She breathed deeply and opened the box.

  It was obvious that a bunch of stuff was missing. She took everything out, trying to figure out what wasn’t in the box. There were motions, transcripts from jury selection, and the sentencing hearing.

  The entire court transcript of the trial was gone. There was no witness list, no crime scene report, not even the coroner’s report.

  There had to be another box. She looked on the outside of the box. It was labeled “The People of Sacramento County vs. Thomas M. O’Brien.” In the bottom right-hand corner was the notation “2 of 2.”

  She walked back to the lady who had helped her before and told her there was another box.

  The woman sighed. “If there’s another box, it’s filed wrong and there’s no way I can find it now. Fill out this form and I’ll have someone research it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, repressing her frustration.

  Claire took the form back to her table and went through the documentation that was in the box. Most of it was motions, but she noted her father’s attorney—George Prescott, Esq. She wrote down his contact information. Maybe he’d have a copy of the transcript.

  While there was no crime scene report, the original police report and photos were inside. Claire took a deep breath and opened the folder.

  Officer Adam Parks had filed the following report:

  Responded to an anonymous call of shots fired at 1010 35th Avenue. Upon arrival, a Sacramento Police Officer, Sergeant Thomas O’Brien, was exiting the residence with a minor female, later identified as his daughter, Claire O’Brien. It was quickly determined that the residence belonged to Sgt. O’Brien. Sgt. O’Brien informed this responding officer of two bodies, presumed dead, inside the residence in the rear bedroom. He voluntarily handed over his service revolver, which was logged in to evidence. Inside, this officer ascertained that there were two victims and they were both deceased. We searched the house and garage to ensure there was no intruder on the premises, then secured the scene and called in the possible officer-related shooting.

  That was the only police report in the file. There should have been reams of paper—interviews, follow-ups, a canvass. Who had made the anonymous call? A neighbor? That should have come out in the canvass. What about the detective assigned?

  Claire thought back to the trial. It physically pained her—she’d spent years working hard to forget every detail of the nine months between the murders and her father’s conviction. She recalled that the sheriff’s department had been assigned the investigation because of a conflict of interest since the primary suspect was a Sacramento Police Officer.

  Again, she realized that she should talk to Bill. He’d been with the sheriff’s department for thirty-two years. He’d know far more about her father’s case and the subsequent investigation.

  Also in the box were four unmarked photos, which made Claire think they hadn’t actually been used in trial. They were snapshots, and that in and of itself was odd. Where were the crime scene photographs? There should have been hundreds of them. If the murders occurred now, there might simply be a disk of photos, but fifteen years ago they were still using film and archiving the hard-copy photos.

  The photos were in color, and though faded, were still disturbing.

  Her mother and Taverton were in a deadly embrace. Blood was everywhere, just like Claire remembered. The blood had seeped from the gun wounds, but there was no battle, no fight, no movement of the dying. Death was as instantaneous as you could get. If she had either the coroner’s report or the crime scene report, she’d know how far away the killer had been when he fired and from what angle. But those reports were also missing.

  She looked at the next photo and gasped. She stared into the dead eyes of her mother. Her face had been obscured in the first photo, but this was taken from another angle.

  Mom.

  She’d always been closer to her father than her mother. Growing up, she had not understood why. She and her mother argued about everything. Claire blamed herself. She’d been an obstinate kid. A brat. And when her mother was dead, she could no longer tell her that, even with everything they fought over, Claire loved her. They may never have been friends, but Claire loved her nonetheless.

  And because she knew, even at fourteen, that she’d been so wrong about her mother. The good and the bad.

  Waves of agony washed over Claire. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really did love you.”

  I’m sorry, Dad. I should have believed you from the beginning. But it looked like you’d killed them.

  Maybe if Claire had been more open to listening to Oliver Maddox, he would have shared with her his theory. If she had just given him half a chance, she could have been working this for the last four months. Oliver might not have died.

  Maybe she would have.

  The facts jumped around in her brain. The killer must have known what Oliver had found, and feared exposure. But maybe Oliver didn’t realize the importance of what he had, otherwise why wouldn’t he have gone to the police? Oliver had been murdered—she was certain of it, no matter that Dave told her last night that his car crash into the Sacramento River could have been an accident.

  She needed the coroner’s reports. Both for her mother and Chase Taverton, and for Oliver Maddox. Fortunately, she knew the supervising forensic pathologist at the morgue.

  Mitch and Steve walked into the Davis Police Department at 10:30 Thursday morning after finishing up with the autopsy and working out jurisdictional evidence issues with the sheriff’s department. The flash drive was already on its way to the FBI’s computer forensics laboratory in Menlo Park, less than three hours away. They figured the best way to preserve any information that had been saved on the chip within the submerged stomach of Oliver Maddox was to have the best computer minds in the Bureau work it.

  Detective Theo Barker introduced himself to the Feds. “I made you a copy when you called earlier,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Mitch said and glanc
ed through the report. Standard missing persons—the girlfriend called it in three days after she last saw Maddox, which was approximately noon on Sunday, January 20 when she left him, alone, at his town house on F Street. A neighbor reported seeing the white Explorer pull out of the driveway at dusk—which put his departure roughly at 5:30 p.m. That was the last reported sighting of Oliver Maddox.

  There were interviews with the girlfriend, his advisor, classmates, neighbors, and his grandmother who lived in the Midwest. Nothing unusual, but Mitch would need to read it in more depth.

  “Sorry to hear he’s dead,” Barker said, “but that’s what I suspected. Young college student like that without financial or female problems doesn’t just walk off. But what is the interest of the FBI? Your people don’t investigate routine traffic fatalities.”

  “The cause of death is possible homicide,” Steve said.

  “The FBI doesn’t usually investigate routine homicides, either.”

  “We’re working with the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department,” Steve said. “Maddox was a person of interest related to one of the fugitives from San Quentin.”

  “Think a convict killed him? I hadn’t heard of any in this area.”

  “No, he was dead before the earthquake,” Mitch interjected.

  “By the way, there’s a private investigator interested in the file. A real looker.”

  Mitch knew it was Claire, but asked anyway. “Do you have her name?”

  Barker slid over a business card. “I didn’t know Rogan-Caruso would take such a small case, but live and learn.”

  Mitch picked up the card. CLAIRE O’BRIEN, LICENSED INVESTIGATOR. Steve glanced at him without expression. “Thanks,” Mitch said. “Appreciate the help.”

  They left the police station and drove over to the university. Steve asked, “How did she find out Maddox was missing?”

  “Maybe she knows he’s dead,” Mitch said. “She has a lot of friends on the force.”