Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [59]
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,