Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

“Of course you do,” Phil said.

“Damn straight,” Eric concurred. “Do you want us to go with you?”

“No,” Dave said. “I have to do it myself.”

Claire rushed to Bill’s house, opening the front door as the big grandfather clock in the entry struck once to mark half past the hour. The warm aroma of fresh-baked sugar cookies filled the house. Bill had taken to baking after his wife died, when Dave was barely a teenager.

Bill walked down the hall from the kitchen and greeted her with a warm bear hug. “I thought I heard that Jeep of yours in the drive.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“We didn’t have a set time. Come into the kitchen. I have cookies in the oven.”

She loved Bill, more like a grandfather than a father. He was in his early sixties, had retired eight years ago. Gained a bit of weight around the middle, but otherwise looked the same as he had when she came to live with him after her father’s arrest.

“Missed you last night,” she said as she followed Bill.

“Waste of a night. Lost in overtime by three points.” He shook his head. “They’d better have their game on tomorrow.”

“You going to be at the game?”

“Yep, I have tickets for Friday and Saturday nights. Then they go back on the road. Why don’t you join me Saturday?”

“I’d like to, but-” She didn’t know what she would be doing Saturday. Claire didn’t want to make any plans for a while.

“Thirsty?”

“Water.”

“Milk. You’re too skinny.”

“Am not.”

Claire loved Bill’s sunny kitchen with the cheerful blue-and-white checks. Grover, a retired police German shepherd, raised his head and smiled at Claire-at least that’s what she liked to think.

She scratched Grover between the ears and sat at the table. Bill put a fresh-baked muffin and a tall glass of milk in front of her. She hadn’t had lunch, and devoured the muffin while Bill watched her from a seat across the table.

“Okay, that was good. I miss your baking. But I thought I smelled cookies.”

“You did. They’re in the oven. I made the muffins first, knowing they were your favorite.”

“It was delicious.”

“I’ll send some home with you.” He poured her a second glass of milk. “Dave called me this morning.”

“About Oliver Maddox.”

Bill nodded.

“You know he’s dead.”

“Dave told me. A tragedy. I liked him.”

She straightened. “How well did you know him?”

“Not well. But there’s something endearing about a young idealist searching for answers. I was an idealist when I became a cop. Thought I could protect and serve and be proud of every decision I made.” His voice trailed off and he glanced out the window, then back at Claire.

“Oliver lied to me,” said Claire. “He told me he was an attorney with the Western Innocence Project and they were looking into my father’s conviction. But when I called over there, I found out he had been an intern and was no longer even with the Project. So I didn’t listen to him, Bill, and I now regret it. You talked to him. What did he know?”

Bill said nothing for a long minute. Then, “If you’re looking for a clear indicator of guilt or innocence, I don’t have it. But I did listen to what Oliver had to say, and it was compelling.”

“Did he have proof that my father is innocent?”

“You need proof?”

She didn’t understand the question. “Of course I need proof. He was convicted of a double homicide. He killed my mother. But if he didn’t-yes, I need proof.”

“There wasn’t a lot of proof during the original trial. Tom was convicted on circumstantial evidence. Solid, to be sure, and back then I believed he was guilty. Weapon, motive, and opportunity.”

“What about now?”

“Oliver said the police investigation into Taverton was on the surface, at best. They never looked beyond the obvious-threats made against him, criminals he had prosecuted who were at the time out of prison. Yes, they covered their bases, but it wasn’t a thorough investigation because the district attorney believed they had the killer in custody. The investigation was more to prove Tom was guilty than to pursue any other possibilities.

“Truth is, that’s the way it is most of the time. While we do our best to look at all potential suspects, usually we know who the killer is and work our butts off to prove it. That was the way it was with Tom.”

Claire’s heart fell. “So Oliver had no proof.”

“What do you think, Claire? Knowing that the police didn’t follow up on Chase Taverton or his potential enemies, what do you think about the case?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. It matters a lot. Because there is reasonable doubt. I used to be a lot more hard-nosed about the criminal justice system. I hated how some of those bastards got off because of a ridiculous technicality, only to rape or rob or kill again. It made me so angry and fueled my younger self to be a diligent, hard-ass cop. I didn’t want any of the criminals I arrested to get off on a stupid loophole, or because I didn’t do my job correctly. And the truth is, the detectives in charge of the O’Brien-Taverton double murder closed every loophole so Tom couldn’t even wiggle. Remember, only a few weeks before Tom’s trial started O. J. Simpson was arrested for murder, ridiculously claiming there was another killer. It made Tom look like a guilty man grasping at straws when his attorney stood up and claimed someone else killed those two people-because there was no other reasonable motive, no other reasonable suspect.

“Claire, do you need black-and-white proof that your father is innocent or do you believe that he is innocent absent proof of another’s guilt?”

Claire let out a pent-up breath. She had never thought of it that way. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it. She needed to blame someone for destroying her family. “Someone is guilty.”

Bill nodded. “And I think Oliver figured it out. But he didn’t share his conclusions with me. We spoke twice. The first time was right before Christmas. He explained his findings and theory to me and asked some questions about police procedures.”

“What did he know?”

“He knew very little. He had reviewed the police reports and discovered that no one had seriously looked into the Chase Taverton angle back then. He thought that was odd, and I concurred. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was out of the loop because I had a conflict of interest. And, frankly, most of the cops I knew suspected Tom was guilty. He had always been a bit of a hothead. I didn’t know him personally, but it all came out during the trial. You know that.”

“He never hurt me or my mom.”

“I don’t doubt that, Claire. He loves you.”

She frowned. “Anything else? I’m trying to figure out what Oliver Maddox knew that got him killed.”

“You think it’s murder? Not an accident?”

“He disappeared after telling his girlfriend he was almost done with his thesis on ‘The Perfect Frame.’ But she didn’t know where his thesis went. I’m certain that Oliver was referring to my dad’s case, that he believed my dad was framed. And I-” What did she really believe?

“I think he might have been right,” she said.

Bill leaned forward. “Might have been? Are you still qualifying your answers? If Oliver was murdered, he uncovered something big enough and dangerous enough that he was a threat to someone with the ability and lack of conscience to kill. And that person most likely killed your mother and Taverton.”

“Do you think my dad is innocent?”

“Yes.”

“Did you always think so?”