Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

“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?” Clarkston 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.”

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.