Playing Dead Part 5

"He interned for the Project last summer and found a file when he was boxing up cases for storage. He read the whole thing and went to the director and asked to look into it. The director said the case had been reviewed and they'd decided not to get involved. Oliver tried to change his mind, but couldn't. So he thought he'd look into it himself. He was obsessed, decided he would write his thesis on the case. He called it 'The Perfect Frame.' "

Claire's heart thudded. "Why?"

"I'm studying to become a veterinarian. Legal stuff doesn't interest me so I really didn't pay much attention to the details. All I know is that he was really excited about it, and thought he had it figured out. He said he was going to talk to his advisor Monday morning, try to convince him, but even if he didn't, he planned to go to the director of the Project with another appeal to look into the case."

"Was it urgent?"

"Oh, yeah, the guy's on death row. He has no appeals left."

"And you didn't talk to him after Sat.u.r.day?"

She blushed. "Well, Sunday morning. I stayed at his place. He has a town house on F Street."

"Rented?"

"Owned. His parents died when he was just a kid. He lived with his grandmother most of his life, but he had an inheritance-wrongful-death lawsuit. His parents were killed by a drunk driver."

"How awful."

"The police went there and said it looked like he'd packed up, but I know Oliver wouldn't have left without talking to me. I know it."

Claire believed her. She was starting to get a very bad feeling about Oliver Maddox's fate.

"Who's his advisor? It wasn't in the report."

"It wasn't? I thought I gave that information to the police. Professor Don Collier. He's a law professor and does pro bono work for the Project. Oliver absolutely wors.h.i.+pped him."

The a.s.sa.s.sin was not happy.

He drove fast, away from the opulent, gated mansion where he'd just met with two of the three men who'd blackmailed him into murder. They called him "our a.s.sa.s.sin" and it p.i.s.sed him off. Not that they thought of him as an "a.s.sa.s.sin," but because they considered him their property.

Fifteen years ago he'd made a choice-and huge sacrifices-to stay near the woman he loved. He'd thought one murder (okay, two murders) would have bought his freedom, so when he made the decision to stay in Sacramento after killing the prosecutor and his wh.o.r.e lover he expected to be left alone.

But they wouldn't let him go. Holding that one ancient accident over his head, they made him their hatchet man. And they had the evidence to send him to prison. Or to death.

He s.h.i.+vered involuntarily as a glimpse of his body, dead and rotting, flashed in his mind.

He feared death. In death there was nothing but cold, damp dirt and carnivorous bugs. In death, he would watch his body be devoured with time and the elements. His skin would slough off. He knew what happened to the dead. He'd seen it.

When he was a rookie, the first time he went to the morgue to view an autopsy he saw firsthand what they did. The pathologist cut the body open. Removed everything-stomach, brain, heart-and weighed it. They looked at everything, a f.u.c.king full-body rectal exam. Then they put everything they took out back in, dropping the mess into the torso, and sewed the body up. Put it on a metal gurney and twenty-four hours later the body was taken to be buried or burned.

He also knew what happened to the dead after they were buried. After the flood in 1997 when he had major drainage problems around his house, he had to move one of the bodies. She'd been underground fourteen months.

He didn't know why, but he had expected her to look pretty much as she had when he'd dumped her in the hole. He thought she'd be dirty, maybe a little foul-smelling, but he hadn't expected her to be half-skeletal. And then the worms . . .

Rubbing hands over his body as if brus.h.i.+ng off an ant attack, he almost crashed the speeding car. He still had nightmares about that day . . . sometimes, his body was being eaten, and his skull stared back at him with empty eye sockets.

His own future death gave him frequent nightmares.

It wasn't because he killed people-he didn't really mind that. And they paid him-pretty well actually, after he'd called their bluff. The a.s.sa.s.sin learned who one of the princ.i.p.als was, and the slimy developer certainly didn't want his dirty secrets spread around town. Yeah, they paid him now, but that wasn't the point. The point was that they controlled his life. They knew his true ident.i.ty. It didn't matter that he cleared twenty grand with every killing; he was stuck in involuntary servitude, which sucked.

Now he knew who all the players were and he considered taking them all out. Pop pop pop! They'd be sorry they f.u.c.ked with him. He was a better killer today than fifteen years ago. They'd made him one.

But they had leverage on him. Solid evidence that he had killed Jessica so long ago. And that was what made the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds so good at the conspiracy game: blackmail.

But everything would come cras.h.i.+ng down if Thomas...o...b..ien wasn't stopped. And now that Oliver Maddox's body had been found, there could be other people looking into things better left dead and buried.

What had angered him was his blackmailers' reaction to the discovery in the river. That they felt Claire had to be watched, that she would be a threat if she got wind of what that idiot Maddox had been working on.

He would not let them touch Claire. Claire was his. He'd protected her, taken care of her, practically raised her since her father went to prison. He made sure unworthy men stayed away. He felt no guilt for killing her mother and framing her father-her mother was a s.l.u.t, and obviously her father couldn't keep that wh.o.r.e in line. If it had been his dad? He'd have punished her. But his mother would never have strayed in the first place. His mother knew her place.

And then she died.

He would never let them touch Claire. If she had to die . . . he would personally take care of it. It would be another sign for him, that the time was right for sacrifice and change.

Claire was living on borrowed time, anyway. He hadn't killed her fifteen years ago when he had the opportunity. So that meant that the a.s.sa.s.sin owned her.

And he could take her whenever he wanted.

SIX.

Claire thanked Dr. Jim for coming during his lunch break to examine the stray dogs she'd taken in while she found their owners or new homes. In addition to Yoda and Chewy, Claire had two strays right now: a Lab mutt and what Dr. Jim was certain was a purebred Jack Russell terrier. She couldn't p.r.o.nounce the veterinarian's last name, but it didn't matter since he had dr. jim emblazoned in blue on the breast pocket of his white lab coat.

"I might have a home for the Lab mix," Dr. Jim said.

"Really?" Claire glanced into her small backyard where the year-old stray was chasing his tail. Yoda, a rather serious beagle, watched the visiting mutt with what she could only think of as a look of disdain. Yoda simply didn't know how to have fun.

"Family with three boys. I had to put their shepherd down after a hit-and-run last week. They were devastated, of course, but I think they really want another dog as soon as possible, and they're good people."

"They can come by anytime. Just let me know when and I'll be here."

"Still nothing about the terrier?"

She shook her head. "I put notices up in all the usual places, with the pound, all over the park. I went to every house in a four-block radius. No owner, and no one recognized him."

"He's a smart dog."

She smiled. "You want him?"

"I have four dogs, three of which I took from you. April will shoot me if I bring home another. Besides, I think he's more your style. Even Yoda seems to like him."

True, Claire thought. "We'll see what happens. It's only been two weeks. Maybe his owners went on vacation and the house sitter lost him." She could hope. But the truth was a lot of people simply abandoned their dogs and cats when they moved, or when the pet became too much work. She wanted to strangle those people. Instead, she found good homes for the animals, no matter how long it took.

"Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" Jim asked. "April is making lasagna."

Claire liked Jim and his wife, but she always felt like a third wheel. They'd been married for years, but still acted like newlyweds. It reminded Claire that no matter how many guys she dated or friends she went club-hopping with, in her heart she felt isolated and alone. Until Mitch.

"I have a date, but thanks for the invite. Tell April I said hi."

Claire watched Jim drive off, then closed the door and walked down the hall to her office.

Facing the rose garden in McKinley Park, her Tudor-style house wasn't large, but it was charming. She kept her dogs outside, though they had access to the enclosed sunroom. Neelix, her orange and white cat, had the run of the place. It was because of Neelix that she'd met Dr. Jim in the first place. She'd just bought the house in McKinley Park four years ago when she'd witnessed a teenage boy throwing rocks at a stray cat in the park. The cat was shrieking. Claire had wanted to chase down the punk, and she'd certainly had enough adrenaline to get in a few good licks, but the poor, undernourished injured cat was lying there, trying to get up, dazed. The cat's back leg was broken. Claire picked saving his life over revenge.

She didn't always choose so wisely.

No one claimed Neelix, so she'd kept him. Nursed him back to health. He went from a six-pound skeletal feline to a thirteen-pound fat, lazy cat.

Neelix opened his eyes, not moving from his spot at the end of her bed when she walked in. She scratched him behind the ears, then turned into her office, a converted walk-in closet. Her bedroom originally had two closets-a large walk-in, and a smaller closet. She had taken the doors off the walk-in, removed the shelves and poles, and turned it into her office. It fit a desk, a small file cabinet, and a short bookshelf. Comfortable and functional.

She flipped on her computer screen and Googled the Western Innocence Project. Nearly every state had an "Innocence Project," which was generally affiliated with a law school where lawyers and students took on criminal appeals pro bono if they felt that the convict had been unjustly convicted. Many of the cases came from DNA evidence, often older cases where new forensic technology enabled them to extract DNA from a rape or murder and match it-or not-to the individual convicted of the crime.

She didn't know what she was looking for. She'd talked to the director, Randolph Sizemore, Esq., once before when he had told her that Oliver Maddox wasn't an employee of the Project nor was the Project working on the O'Brien case. However, it might be worth talking to him again. Maybe he knew where Maddox went. Maybe she hadn't asked the right questions.

Spontaneously, she dialed Sizemore's direct line. She'd uncovered it after speaking to him in January, but hadn't had cause to use it.

"Randy Sizemore."

"This is Claire O'Brien. I'm calling about Oliver Maddox."

Silence at first, then, "h.e.l.lo, Ms. O'Brien. How can I help you?"

"Do you remember me?"

"Of course. I made a note of our conversation in my journal. You claimed that Oliver said he was working with my inst.i.tute on behalf of your father."

"That's what he told me, but I know that he was an intern last summer."

"True. I have no new information."

"Do you know that Oliver Maddox is missing? He's been missing since January 20."

There was silence on the other end. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"I spoke with his girlfriend. She said that he came to you last summer and asked if you would look into my father's conviction. You didn't tell me that the first time I spoke with you."

"That's not exactly what happened. Hold on. I remember talking to him about it, but . . ." Claire heard pages flipping in the background. "Oh, right. Yes, O'Brien. It was over five years ago that we put together that file. The file was reviewed by a practicing attorney and it was determined that we had no cause to believe Mr. O'Brien didn't get a fair trial or was wrongfully convicted. The file went to archives."

"And you told Oliver this?"

"Of course. I have so many cases on my desk. I have three full-time attorneys working for me, plus many others who work pro bono. We give a thorough look at the case file, court transcripts, evidence. If there's anything at all that we can sink our teeth into, we file a motion. Put it on the record, even if we don't have the time or resources to pursue it."

"Did Oliver tell you why he thought the case should be looked at again?"

"To be honest, I wasn't paying much attention. That was a busy time, and I had a half-dozen serious cases I was working on, all with legitimate problems. I didn't have time to revisit a case that had been vetted by an attorney I thoroughly trust."

"Who was the attorney who originally looked at the file? Maybe Oliver spoke to him."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes." His sympathetic tone had Claire on edge. She hated when people pitied her.

"Do you believe your father is innocent? In your heart, what do you think?"

She hadn't expected the question. But in the months since Oliver claimed he could prove her father was framed, she'd been thinking about it, and after seeing him this morning . . . She said honestly, "I don't know. Up until I saw my mother's body I would have said he'd never kill anyone. But Oliver was so convinced he was innocent." She didn't mention "The Perfect Frame" to Sizemore. "I want to see what he saw and draw my own conclusions."

"Don Collier."

"Excuse me?"

"Professor Collier does pro bono work for me, and he reviewed the case. He had been a criminal defense attorney before he started teaching at Davis."

"Thank you." Her head was spinning at the information, but she asked, "Can I get a copy of the file?"

"It's in archives. I let Oliver make a copy, but I made sure the original was appropriately refiled. It might take me a day or two."

"That's okay. I really appreciate it."

"I'll have my secretary call you when it's ready."

She thanked Sizemore and put down her phone, wondering what was going on. Having gotten Collier's name from Maddox's girlfriend, Claire had already left a message for him, but he hadn't returned her call.

She tried digging deeper into Oliver Maddox, but there was very little about him. He had a paper posted in the archives of the UC Davis newspaper website. As an alum-even though she'd never graduated-she could access it using her former student ID. It was a paper on the criminal justice system, more than twenty pages. She skimmed it to see if it mentioned her father's case. It appeared to be an indictment against the current appeals process. She didn't see anything related to her dad, but she printed it out to read over more carefully later.

Claire's father had been convicted because of opportunity and motive. His gun was used, but there were no prints on it. It had been wiped clean, which the prosecution claimed was...o...b..ien's attempt to cover up the murders. There was GSR on his hands, but he'd been at the gun range earlier that morning. The prosecution claimed he'd premeditated the murders, and therefore made sure that he had a good reason to have gunshot residue on his hands.

Other than the timeline, there was no other hard evidence. The jury, like the prosecution, didn't believe that anyone else had the means or motive to kill two people at that exact time. No one had seen anyone else-stranger or friend-in or near the house.

Claire had trusted the prosecutor, Sandra Walters. Ms. Walters wanted justice for her mother and Chase Taverton. She'd been kind and supportive from the beginning, treating Claire with kid gloves both on and off the witness stand. Dave and Bill Kamanski, whom she stayed with during the trial, made sure that Claire was treated well. Everyone seemed overly nice to her then, but those months were a blur.

Bill hadn't wanted her to come to the trial at all, but Claire had to. She had to hear everything, to try to understand how her father could have killed two people. How he could have killed her mother.

Claire didn't remember the specifics of the trial. It was as if she'd listened to every word, and imprinted the transcript in her mind, but when she tried to recall details of testimony they were fleeting, just snippets of conversation here and there.

Two weeks before she started her soph.o.m.ore year in high school, her father had been convicted. The trial had only lasted eight days, but it had taken nine months to build the case.

Three days after the conviction, the judge sentenced Thomas...o...b..ien to death.

In the courtroom, her father had turned and stared at her, his eyes haunted.

She'd run to the bathroom and dry-heaved.

"I've told the truth." Her father's flat plea bounced in her head. I've told the truth. I've told the truth.