“She’s also one of the most respected lawyers in Portland. I may have to give serious thought about going into some other profession, like shining shoes or running a supermarket checkout.”
“You’ll be fine. Anyone who’s interviewing you will understand why you got a raw deal. You were fired for representing a client too zealously.”
“By accusing the president of the United States of murder. You can bet that Tuchman will share that tidbit with any possible future employer who asks for a reference.”
“You know, getting fired from Reed, Briggs might not be all that bad. You really don’t fit in here. You’re too nice. And you’re smart enough to get another job. I’ve made some friends, too. I’ll give them a call.”
“Thanks.” Brad stood up. “I’m going back to my office and try to clear my desk so I can go home.”
“You can stay with me tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Let me think about that. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready to leave.”
Brad trudged down the hall to his office with his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if he was expecting a blow. Rumors traveled fast at Reed, Briggs and he imagined that everyone he passed was waiting to whisper behind his back as soon as he was out of earshot.
“Brad,” his secretary said as soon as she saw him.
“Yeah, Sally?”
“A woman has been calling. She says she wants to talk to you, but she won’t leave her name or a number.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No, she just said she’d call back.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone. In fact, hold all my calls.”
Brad closed the door to his office, slumped on his chair, and looked at the mountain of work on his blotter. He knew it was his imagination, but the pile seemed higher than he remembered it being when he went to meet Susan Tuchman. Could files reproduce like rabbits? They certainly seemed to. He knew there was no end to them. Legal work spewed from the bowels of Reed, Briggs like rotten fruit from an evil horn of plenty. The only good thing about his situation was the strong odds that he would not be harvesting this paper crop for long. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe moving on was not a bad thing. He sighed. Good or bad, moving on was definitely in his future. For now, he had to get back to the fields if he wanted to keep getting the paychecks he needed for food and shelter.
Brad walked home from the office because it was the only way he could get any exercise. His vow to work out several times a week had gone unfulfilled, buried under the Everest of paperwork Susan Tuchman had dumped on him. He wished he was walking to Ginny’s place, but he’d taken a rain check. He was so tired when he called it quits at the office that he didn’t have the energy for anything except sleep.
Brad opened the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and dragged himself into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He paused for a moment in front of the refrigerator to watch a tanker churn its way down the Willamette River toward Swan Island. Brad loved his view, night or day. When sunset made Mount Hood and the Willamette disappear, the glow on the east side of the city and the lights on the slow-moving river traffic brought Brad a feeling of peace. This feeling suddenly changed to unease. Something was wrong. Brad squinted at the darkened living room and realized that part of the view was obscured by the silhouette of a head. He jumped back and grabbed a knife from the wooden holder on the kitchen counter.
A black shape rose from the couch. “Please put down the knife, Mr. Miller. My weapon is bigger than yours.”
The shape morphed into a woman holding a gun. Brad’s heart skipped a beat, and he found it hard to breathe. The woman was tall and athletic. She wore tight jeans and a black and red TRAILBLAZER T-shirt under a black satin TRAILBLAZER jacket. Her piercing green eyes and the grim set to her mouth gave Brad the immediate impression that she was not someone to mess with.
“You can relax. My name is Dana Cutler, and I just want to talk to you, not kill you.”
“What’s this about?”
“The knife,” Dana said, gesturing with her gun at Brad’s hand. He looked down, surprised to see he was still gripping the shaft.
“Let’s continue this conversation in the living room,” Dana said as she switched on the lights and motioned Brad into an armchair. She ordered him to keep his hands, palm down, on the armrests and sat facing him on the couch.
“No sudden moves. I’d hate to shoot you.”
Brad eyed Dana’s gun nervously. “How did you get in?”
“Easily. You don’t have an alarm, and the lock was child’s play.”
“If you’re a burglar, I don’t have anything worth stealing. If you want to hire a lawyer, I don’t handle criminal cases.”
“You’re handling one, Clarence Little.”
Brad hid his surprise. “Actually, I’m not,” he said. “I was taken off the case. If you want to talk to someone about that case, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“When were you taken off the case?”
“A few days ago.”
“Why?”
“My supervising attorney felt I was getting too involved.”
“Involved how?”
“I can’t really discuss that. I’d have to reveal attorney-client confidences.”
“Are we in court, Brad? Do you think the rules of evidence apply when the person asking you a question is aiming a loaded gun at your balls?”
“Good point,” Brad answered nervously.
“I’m glad you agree. Now tell me what you were doing that got you canned.”
“I decided that Clarence Little may not have murdered Laurie Erickson and I was gathering evidence of his innocence.”
“Why don’t you think Little is guilty?” Dana asked, intrigued by the direction their conversation was going.
“First off, he says he didn’t do it.”
“He’s on death row. What did you expect him to say?”
“Yeah, but he had proof.”
Brad explained about finding the bodies in the woods and the pinkie collection. He was careful to keep Ginny’s name out of his narrative.
“Has the forensic expert printed the fingers yet?”
“I don’t know. I’m under strict orders to stay away from the case. I’m probably going to be fired because of it.”
“Am I missing something? How can they fire you for trying to prove your client is innocent?”
“There’s a little more to it.”
Dana Cutler listened intently to Brad as he explained his theory that Christopher Farrington had ordered Charles Hawkins to use Clarence Little’s MO to frame the serial killer for the murder of Laurie Erickson and his belief that Hawkins had replicated the plan by using the Ripper MO when he murdered Charlotte Walsh.
“Fascinating,” Dana said when Brad finished. “I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“You have?”
“I came at the problem from a different direction, but I think it’s significant that we both arrived at the same place.”
Curiosity replaced fear as Brad’s dominant emotion. “Why the melodrama?” he asked. “Breaking and entering, and holding me at gunpoint.”
“There have been several attempts on my life, so meeting in public places during the day is out. This seemed like the best bet for privacy.”
“Who are you?”
“Have you been following MurderGate?” Dana asked, using the name the press had given to the scandal.
Brad nodded.
“I’m the photographer who took the pictures of Farrington and Walsh that Exposed printed, and I’m certain that Charles Hawkins killed Walsh and Erickson under orders from the president.”
“Hawkins is the logical suspect, but we don’t have any proof.”
“It has to be him,” Dana insisted. “Farrington couldn’t have killed either woman. He was at the library fund-raiser in Salem when Erickson disappeared, and he was at the farm or with the Secret Service or his wife when Walsh was murdered.”
“I don’t think the Secret Service would lie to cover up a murder, but Farrington’s wife might.”