“What?” Mitch asked.
She pulled the camera in closer and Mitch focused on the television screen over his head. “See it?”
“No.” All Mitch saw was a lump of dark mass that had the basic form of a brain.
“Here.” She took a scalpel and touched a section of the brain that was a slightly different color than the remainder.
“Okay, you got me. What?”
“This is discolored because it was bruised prior to death.”
“Are you saying he was hit on the back of the head before he died?”
“I’m saying that his brain was bruised prior to death, but there were no open wounds.”
“How can you tell?” Clarkston asked, nose wrinkled in disgust.
“The fish would have attacked his brain if it was bleeding externally at the time of death,” the pathologist said. “Though you might want a professional marine biologist to consult.”
“You’re right,” Mitch said. “Fish and other organisms in the water would have focused their feeding activities on any exposed areas. You can see that they primarily ate the face and fingers. What about his skull?”
“I’m getting to that,” she said, slightly irritated. Mitch swallowed a snide comment.
“There wasn’t anything as obvious as a bashed-in skull,” she continued, “when we made the external examination.” With the help of one of the assistants, she turned Maddox’s body on one side. She examined the skull closely. “Hmm.”
“What?” Mitch couldn’t help but ask.
“There is a fine crack in the skull. Here, right at the base.” She pulled the camera closer. Mitch could see the damage only when she pointed it out using the sharp end of her scalpel.
“That’s interesting,” Clarkston said.
The chief pathologist stepped into the room and said, “I’m done with the comparison. Your victim is Oliver Maddox. I’ll write up a report and send it to your office.” Then he was gone.
Nothing that Mitch didn’t already know, but it was nice getting the confirmation.
“What’s that?” the assistant pathologist said from the room.
Mitch turned his attention back to the table. The stomach had been removed-or what was left of it. Inside was something bright pink.
The senior pathologist placed the stomach on the scale and cut it open. She removed the object and frowned.
“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.”
SEVENTEEN
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
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:
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
