Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [20]
Several tears escaped and Tammy wiped them away. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not,” Claire agreed. “What was Oliver’s thesis on? I have down that he was working on something for the Western Innocence Project. Could he have left to do research? Maybe not told you?”
Tammy looked down. “Oliver lied about that.”
“Excuse me?”
“He wasn’t working for the Western Innocence Project. That’s his dream job. Oliver is so compassionate. That’s why I love him. He cares so much about people and doing the right thing. Sometimes too much.”
“Why would he lie?”
“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 Saturday?”
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 worshipped him.”
The assassin 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 assassin” and it pissed him off. Not that they thought of him as an “assassin,” 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 whore 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 shivered 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 fucking 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.